


freedomscapes

by panini1995



Series: freedomscapes [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Haikyuu Original Character, Itachiyama, MSBY Black Jackals - Freeform, Non-Chronological, Post-Timeskip, Pre-Timeskip, Reader Insert, Sakusa - Freeform, Sakusa Kiyoomi X OC, Sakusa x original characters, Sakusa's university days, What's the diff tell me, love and friendship - Freeform, post-college, sakusa kiyoomi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24511390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panini1995/pseuds/panini1995
Summary: Your laughter reaches Kiyoomi’s ears before he even sees you. For a second he’s thankful you’ve finally arrived, but then he stops. Being with you is pleasant, but it's certainly bound to be anything but uneventful. He narrows his eyes,So what's it gonna be today?—In which Sakusa Kiyoomi befriends [Reader] in his college days, for better or for worse. In the roar of live games, in the stillness of cheap coffee places in the morning, in the chaos that is college hallways at the sound of the bell--these are the quiet lulls in-between.(Will include some post-college days too. Non-chronological timeline.)
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Original Female Character(s), Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Series: freedomscapes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891609
Comments: 59
Kudos: 343





	1. blithe and beautiful

Kiyoomi doesn’t have time anymore to text you to hurry up and get here at this very moment because, before he realizes, this girl—a girl he’s never seen before—with bleached hair and a habit of touching the hem of her skirt when nervous is now right in front of him, handing him two boxes of what he thinks are chocolates. “I disinfected them because I know how much you hate germs,” she says. She touches her skirt, her hair. He’s sure she meant the boxes, not the chocolates inside..?

Still, he doesn’t want to take the chocolates. In the brief second that follows, she launches on a long heartfelt speech that he loses track of after five minutes. After what felt like three more minutes, she tries to touch him, but he dodges on instinct. He’s slowly losing his options; he wants to get out of this situation fast without being rude.

Your laughter reaches Kiyoomi’s ears before even he sees you. For a second he’s thankful you’ve finally arrived, but then he stops. Being with you is pleasant, but it's certainly bound to be anything but uneventful. He narrows his eyes, _So what's it gonna be today?_ He looks in your direction for just a moment and he sees you waving goodbye to one of his teammates who goes inside the gym. He watches as you approach them. Slowly.

“Uhm, hi,” you say, unsure, as you stand beside him. “My name’s [Y/N], and I…will hold on to these,” you struggle to say as you gingerly take the boxes from the girl’s hands, your eyes darting towards him, “as his…” you furrow your brows, “…manager. His personal manager.” 

_What?_ He squints at you as you turn to face his direction. You’re a terrible, terrible liar. Not that he can speak for himself; he’s lost count of the number of times you both have sworn that you’re never hiring one another in a criminal heist. “Oh—! And as his Chem lab partner,” you quickly add from behind him after taking about a couple more steps. “Chem. About to start in 15 minutes…”

His eyebrows are now permanently etched together and he is grateful for the face mask. As if realizing what your words must’ve been implying, however, the girl returns her attention to him and stutters: “Oh, uhm. I wouldn’t keep you standing here for long, Sakusa-san. I hope you like the chocolates! If you enjoy them, my number is written at the back of the envelope. You may give me a call or text and I will bring you some more!”

Et cetera, et cetera.  
.  
.  
.  
.

The two of you walk together in silence, his pace slowing down to match yours, having given up a long time ago on making _you_ catch up to him. (“It’s not my fault I have shorter legs.” “Not significantly so, you simply refuse to walk faster.” “Oh, for the love of—“). He notices just now that you don’t have your bag with you. That means you don’t have class this morning and you're only out early for lunch. Ah, he remembers, it’s Wednesday. After lunch, you’ll head off to the Fine Arts department to get the keys to one of their studios, wherein you’ll once again hole up to continue working on your piece for an upcoming exhibit. You will be there for hours, working ‘till very late. On days like this, his only parting words would always be: “Eat,” which you’d promptly forget the moment you turn around the corner.

He’s the first one to break the silence. “So. Tell me about this Chem homework.”

“We don’t have any homework. We don’t have Chemistry together, not anymore since we were freshmen.” You wince; only first-years get to take the general Chemisty subject, unless you’re a repeater. “And I, certainly, do not have class for the next couple of hours.”

He grunts, his way of saying thank you for getting him out of that awkward situation, lame excuses notwithstanding. You laugh, lightly bumping your arms to his. His hands are still tucked inside his jacket pockets and he doesn’t avoid the contact. He catches the faint scent of alcohol mixed with the vanilla-scented hand soap you always buy because of the nice packaging. He idly wonders if your hands are still rough from washing them with soap too often, even with all the hand creams he’s gifted you in every birthday and in any other gifting occasion that it’s become a sort of inside joke between you two. He’s the only person that you know in your life who gifts people hand creams and mean it, not because they come in discounted gift packs in malls during the holiday season. So you take these gifts with solemn gratitude and arranges them in a small, makeshift shrine in your bathroom, thanking Omi-sama for another year of bountiful supplies by sending him an annual selfie with your growing collection. You now have enough hand creams to last you another four years, you’ve told him last time.

You make your way to the wide open garden where most students hang in the breaks between classes. You find a bench that sits comfortably under a wide canopy, the one that you like because of the back rest. There’s an unspoken agreement that the chocolates are now yours; still, you look at him as you hold the boxes up and you wait for him to nod in response. 

In the same delicate way you sort and clean your brushes, you tug at the ribbons and carefully unpack one of the boxes. He follows the shifting hidden expressions in your eyes as you inspect the gift: delight, surprise, a slight quirking between your eyebrows to express wonder. “Oh, this one’s yours, Kiyoomi,” you murmur, almost to yourself, as you pick up the envelope with the heart-shaped tape on the flap, setting it aside for him to read for later. 

“That’s yours now, too.”

You sigh, a knowing smile tugging at your lips, as you uncoil the tiny silver ribbon around the foil, carefully removing the ball of 75% dark chocolate from the middle, turning it around between your thumb and index finger. You don't know if he's stated anywhere that he prefers dark chocolates, but somehow, his admirers just know. As you mull this over, Kiyoomi sees that you don’t have bandaged fingers today and he mentally ticks that off as one small nice thing for today…if this day is all about tallying good things and bad. For a second, he isn’t sure if the knowing smile is for him or for the chocolate. He figures it’s for him since you never liked dark chocolate _at all_.

(You gave him half of the sweets you received at last year’s Valentine’s—all of them dark—which you knew he liked, in spite of the obvious frown on his face when you handed him the heavy bag. In exchange, he gave you all his vanilla and white chocolate ones.)

“You need a contingency measure for when that happens again, you know,” you take another wrapped chocolate, “like a list of excuses to suddenly leave, or…a believable reason why they should definitely disinfect the package right in front of you, no matter if they try to convince you they already did.”

Kiyoomi blinks slowly and turns his head. “Why would they do that.”

“I don’t know. I said believable.” He hums a non-response. “Tell them…you will high-five them if you do.”

“Absolutely not.”

You grin at him with the mirth of a little girl. “I say the more far-fetched your excuse, the more they likely won’t question it. Because who in their right mind would make that up?”

“You always come up with the worst lies.” You gasp: “No, I don’t?” You then recall this one kid in Hyogo from your childhood who absolutely stuck to his story of a dragon attacking his home the night before and swallowing his homework, along with the rest of his family. And it was the utter strangeness of it, and the kid’s conviction that it really did happen, that you believe convinced the teachers and your classmates that, maybe, half of it’s true, that perhaps the dragon and his family getting eaten were simply a metaphor for something. (It was the week you discussed figures of speech in grammar class and this was why this explanation appealed to you back then.) That, or he’s a looney. You’ve told him this story twice now, but he doesn’t mention this to you. He has fun with the way your hands go around and gesture with every word.

Depending on the context, he realizes, this story could be interpreted as sad or funny.

“That.” Kiyoomi deadpans. “Is the sort of roundabout excuse _you_ would come up with.” He hears you utter a small _wow,_ before you throw a balled foil wrapper at his face which he narrowly dodges with a slight movement of his head.

You were about to say something back but then you stop. You chew silently for a few seconds, before your eyes go slightly wide.

“Omi—“ you cover your mouth while you chew, the other hand pausing in mid-air. Finally, you crack a smile, pointing at your mouth. “Dried plum!” You spend the next 5 minutes grouping the similarly-packaged dried-plum-filled chocolates on one side and the rest of the assorted flavors on the other. You insist that they are his only, to _please have a taste, at least,_ to which he responds with a half-hearted _good luck to that._

You both stay quiet for a while, content with each other’s company. He thinks he’ll rarely get quiet moments such as this in the coming weeks, or months probably, even. _Hell week_ is what they call the five grueling days of final exams at the end of each term, but for seniors, it can stretch up to an entire semester, or even an entire year, if one is not careful enough. He’s never had problems with school before and he certainly will not now, so he doesn’t worry much. Still, he appreciates the quiet lulls in-between—the silly banter over cheap cafeteria coffee in the morning (which you insist on getting because you seem to be their only customer); over eat-all-you-can Shabu-Shabu in that new place across your school (to which he only agreed on going with you with the promise of safe cooking time and temperature for all the meat plus extra chopsticks for each plate to avoid cross-contamination, and which he decided wasn’t so bad); or even over your dorm’s cafeteria food, which you know you both hate but the two of you always end up eating anyway, more out of tradition than anything else, the food almost unnoticed in the easy flow of your conversation (or the non-awkward silence in the spaces between). 

He remembers that you’ll practically spend the rest of your day today alone in a studio, toiling until the work that you’ve done finally satisfies you (which, somehow, it rarely does, and Kiyoomi would oftentimes wonder as he stares at the artworks he can only describe as beautiful). Who knows when you’ll see each other again? Perhaps next week, if you manage to finish your work early? Or tonight if you even remember to eat. A cold feeling almost creeps into him, but it doesn’t linger for long. Your voice brings him back to the present moment: “these aren’t actually bad,” you nod, satisfied. You search for the letter you’ve set aside from earlier. “I think maybe I can text her to bring you some again.”

“Do that,” he retorts, without missing a beat, “and you will never step foot in a live volleyball game ever again.” You roll your eyes. _Rude,_ you tell him, biting your lower lip to keep yourself from laughing. You don’t say a word but he’s sure you’re having fun at the sheer idea of the girl popping out of nowhere with her boxes of chocolates to torment him again. You laugh anyway right as the school bell commences, signaling the start of your one-and-a-half-hour free period before lunch. You used to debate over the number of ‘DING DONGs’ the bell repeats; one time he confidently counted fifteen, but you swore you’d counted twenty. He took a mental note to count again if he remembers. Loser pays for lunch.

(You don’t realize that the school bell alternates between fifteen and twenty rings, and neither of you ever bothers opening the topic to anyone else.)

He loses count, however, as your laughter drowns out the otherwise intrusive medley. He never questions what you laugh at anymore—some crude remark you wouldn’t dare react to in front of others, a random meme you remember seeing last night, a normal-looking person with hair that you swear resembles a sleeping lion from a certain angle, or randomly remembering one of his funny anecdotes about Ushijima Wakatoshi—he simply steals a fleeting glance at you from the corner of his eyes. Perhaps the only big event by the end of the day would be you laughing above the noise in the middle of this chaos that is pre-lunch period, like this, right here, but he certainly, honestly wouldn't mind.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
(He snatches one ball from your dried-plum-filled pile and you beam at him triumphantly.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yves Klein refers to monochrome paintings as “freedomscapes."


	2. breathing exercises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the present moment, he runs through his mental note of your (many) fears and checks one off: thunderstorms. Like your other fears, this is something you’ve never uttered a single word about. Not to him, not to anybody.
> 
> “[Y/N], relax.” 
> 
> Even if you don’t hear him, you definitely do hear the sudden thunder, for you flinch _violently_ \--sending the pen that you’ve taken out of your bag to fidget with flying across the opposite wall.
> 
> \--
> 
> Kiyoomi has been observant of your fears through the years; fears he has yet to understand and know the reasons for, but he never pries; he just watches. In the meantime, however, he has to find a way to stop you from completely eating your nails one by one.

Kiyoomi follows your every movement with his eyes and it is all he can do to keep himself from taking your hand and stuffing it in his pocket to stop you from biting off your nails. He wonders where he can fit applying alcohol to both your hand and his in the process, but he only has a second now to come up with an answer before he actually decides to reach out and tell you off. Except you suddenly stop, that practiced blank expression still on your face, when you notice him eyeing you and you remember how much he hates it when you do that. _“One of these days you're not gonna be able to stop the bleeding,”_ he had reprimanded you back when you were first-years, _“or worse, your nails will fall off.” And remove a layer of protection for your fingers,_ he had wanted to add.

_“Yeah, thanks,” you responded in annoyance in a very rare show of negative emotion. Annoyed at what, he didn’t question, because he could see that even you knew there was no real reason. “I’ll just try punching a wall, then, next time.”_

_And Kiyoomi was not one to back down himself. “Yeah, do that.”_

Indignant on never ever showing fear, you finally stop moving. You look peaceful, meditative even, he thinks as he looks at you suspiciously. You had been the picture of calm and repose too when the two of you first met. The second time, he got your name—well he had to, he tells himself—and he heard your laughter for the first time when you told him you knew his name already from having to consistently cheer against his school for three whole years. Inarizaki High, he'd learn eventually. You’d been partnered up together in a prerequisite Chemistry class during your freshman year and if he had initially thought that he was gonna have a dull, thankfully normal, and spectacularly uneventful time in the one subject that he did not particularly like—well, he was wrong. There wasn't much conversation during this second meeting, yet his first impressions stuck: you were many things all at once—he knew that from your quiet smiles like you've known each other before; from the tiny scribbles at the underside of your left forearm; from the way you spoke and listened in attention...all the brief movements and mundane gestures from your side of the table that somehow temporarily occupied the part of his mind that had always been a stronghold of anxieties. It didn't make sense, really, but he relished the short respite.

On rare nights, he thinks of how that was maybe exactly what drew him in. In the couple of years (and counting) of your being friends, he simply found himself being open to learning so much about you. You were never one to assert who or what you are as a person; people simply figure you out through your actions, a puzzle he realized he doesn’t mind taking the time to know each and every piece of. For an art major, you weren’t exactly the flashiest, most eccentric person he’s ever known—although you do have your own brand of weird. Perhaps it’s why, against this backdrop of laidback first impressions, your fears and anxieties had been so striking, at least to an observer like him who somehow started spending more and more time with you. Small fears, big fears, unknown ones that keep you up at night; things that you’ve never found the words to say, but are seemingly just _right there,_ filling the quiet spaces. Fears he has yet to understand and know the reasons for, but he never pries; he just watches. He watches the way your hands clench over certain words, the circuitous ways you’d avoid particular topics in conversation (always the bad liar), or how you’re sometimes the one to initiate the physical non-contact between you and him which has got nothing to do with germs. He sees them in the books you read, in the ancient works of art that you stare at far longer than you should and in your own interpretations of them. Maybe you don’t intend to, but Kiyoomi sees them in you artworks, as well—in notebook sketches, in canvasses, and in paper; in the works that you let others admire and the ones you keep to yourself. He never questions them, in the same manner that you never asked but simply went with all his quirks and anxieties and his moods and all his weird rules, effortlessly moving with and around them like muscle memory, and in the process, filling up a certain space for yourself in the vacant places that Kiyoomi never realized were there. Even this, he doesn’t question.

At the present moment, he runs through his mental note of your (many) fears and checks one off: thunderstorms. Like your other fears, this is something you’ve never uttered a single word about. Not to him, not to anybody. He only knows about it thanks to that one time you both were stranded in the gym after his training. You’d agreed on getting something to eat before heading home and you kept giving him monosyllabic answers when asked where you wanted to go, what did you want to eat, or did you enjoy your classes today? (And he swore he would never again allow himself to get to the point of sounding like a clueless parent to an uninterested teenager just to keep the conversation going. Which startled him because with you, words just happen, or they simply don’t when they don’t need to.) You startled him again when you suddenly clutched at his biceps once you two finally stood at the front door, breaking your unspoken promise of no physical contact _and definitely no holding for more than 5 seconds tops unless in an emergency._ He was worried enough that he invited you back in and he never said a word even as you started _pointing out things._ Almost silently, almost to yourself.

_“There is a dark stain on this spot on the floor…right here.” “…” “The light over there is slightly dimmer than the rest, you know.” “…” “The bleachers are blue. That guy’s hair is not quite orange,” you paused, thinking, “but more like the yellow-brown of lightly-toasted bread.” You looked at him from the corner of your eyes and might’ve mistaken his confusion for annoyance. “You are annoyed because we could be walking to that new vegan place, right now…”_

He imagines you making these material, grounding observations in your head, right now. But you’re only staring out the window, so he can’t really tell.

“[Y/N], relax.” 

Even if you don’t hear him, you definitely do hear the sudden thunder, for you flinch _violently_ , betraying your flimsy facade—the pen that you’ve taken out of your bag to fidget with, in lieu of the nail-biting, has flown all the way across the opposite wall, startling an innocent passerby. In another occasion, it would’ve been hilarious, he’ll even allow himself a quiet chuckle. Maybe once this has passed, he’ll chide you over it.

The elevator finally stops and he is thankful there’s no other passenger. If you end up crying in front of someone else the next time the thunder strikes you’re never showing your face around campus ever again, the stubborn girl. Not that your currently vacant expression is any indication. He feels you hesitating at first, but finally you cling to his arm sleeve, just slightly pinching with your curved thumb and index finger, the most contact you know he’ll ever allow in times of non-emergency.

Your grip doesn’t loosen the whole elevator ride and probably will not until you’ve found some safe place, until you’ve felt at peace. Whatever kind of peace you grasp on to whenever this happens, he’s sometimes unsure. Kiyoomi thinks it’s when you’ve finally made it home, or when the raining stops, but on one occasion he simply rolled his eyes at you in mock pity—because god knows he only has as much experience as a house plant when it comes to offering comfort, and he thought that if he acted in your normal, teasing manner you’d feel at ease—and out of nowhere you actually did smile, the spell seemingly broken. So, really, he never knows.

Slowly, he adjusts his arm and takes your clammy hand, clasping them inside his own. Your hand is cold, colder than that one time you swore your freezing hands were gonna fall off in your old Chem lab with the crazy air conditioner and he momentarily forgot his aversion to physical touch to cover your hands with his to check, and indeed, they were “mad cold” (your words). He doesn’t move his head to look at your expression, you simply respond with a weak squeeze, before your hand finally relaxes, almost going limp, secured in his clasp. It will stay there long after you’ve gotten out of the building, in the long walk along the hallways that connect to the girls’ dorms—amidst the curious glances and outright stares from other students, which he promptly ignores—in the reception area as you wait for his visitor’s pass. And even as you sit apart in the quiet of your small living room, a little while later, both of you on the floor he’s made sure is clean—him sipping his tea, you lying on a futon by his leg, safely tucked under thick covers—as you both stare at the rain, waiting for the thunder to quiet down, he can still feel the ghost of your fingers around his, slowly and surely curling themselves safely in the space he accommodates for you and you only.

Right at the door before you entered, you had taken two deep breaths just like how your mom had told you to many years ago (you mentioned this out loud without realizing). Kiyoomi squeezed your hand one last time, a silent promise to never let go.

—

In the dim room, he hears your quiet breathing. It is 6PM and he doesn’t bother opening the light. The rain has quieted down and even he is tempted to curl up under a warm comforter. 

“Hey.” His voice is low.

No response. Are you sleeping? He has to know.

“What was up with that flying pen earlier—“ and that’s how he gets his answer, as your head instantly sticks out of your oversized blanket and pins him with a look of mock horror. You free one arm and reach somewhere above you, throwing at him with full force the first thing your hand touches—a small pillow—which he effortlessly deflects. His eyes remain expressionless above his mask, but you can see the slight shaking of his shoulders. You bury your face in your blanket, defeated, and Kiyoomi knows you have found your peace.


	3. muscle memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You hear the voices first before you actually enter, and when he mutters _wait_ to stop you from pulling the curtain open, it is too late. Miya Atsumu, Bokuto Koutarou, and Hinata Shouyo stop to stare, their hands freezing in mid-air in the middle of what seems to have been an animated discourse with wild gestures and lots of standing right before you came in.
> 
> There is a moment of quiet—a long, extended second as three pairs of eyes glance back and forth between you and the bouquet in your arms—before a unified shriek erupts from the table
> 
> —
> 
> I'll be jumping from one different timeline to another. Today, I bring you post-timeskip; next chapter, _who knows?_
> 
> Side note: You are, of course, a Ninja Shouyo fan.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, 23, outside hitter for the MSBY Black Jackals, is in no shape or mood to tolerate humans today, much less his single-brain-celled teammates who are currently holding a lively discussion about some grand plan involving groceries, some flour, and Sakusa’s car. Which, consequently, also involves himself. He catches the gist: Bokuto and gang need him to drive them to the grocery store to buy baking essentials for their captain’s birthday. First of all: he’s not even sure anyone among these volley-nerds know their way around the kitchen (except for maybe Hinata who has lived on his own for years); second, he would’ve obliged, to be honest—contrary to popular belief, Sakusa does learn to tolerate people; he also doesn’t mind bearing witness to some of his teammates’ stupid shenanigans from time to time as a form of self-entertainment—except that last night they’d all been hauled out of bed by either Bokuto or Inunaki—he doesn’t recall anymore—at 12 in the morning to sing ‘happy birthday’ to Meian Shugo like a bunch of college kids. Gracious as he was, Meian managed to shunt them off to bed in the next five minutes. Sakusa, however, hadn’t slept for the next three hours.

He closes his eyes as he tries to drown out the voices, his hand supporting his jaw, the light appearing as a rose sangria shade behind his closed eyelids. He doesn’t know where they get all this energy, nor does he understand why he seems to be the only one without a good night’s sleep around the table. _Well Meian-san still hasn’t come out yet,_ he observes, one eye peeking from under his wavy hair towards his captain’s room, the tips of his curls tickling his eyelids. He almost hears your voice reminding him to get a haircut.

He suddenly thinks of his bed and decides that he misses it.

He needs a place to escape to—people or no people. As if answering his prayers, his phone chimes to reveal a text from you, informing him that you’ll be around the area today. His eyes quickly process this and his fingers frantically reply back within a heartbeat, catching you by surprise.

_What time will you be here? Let’s go in the morning._

You read his text twice. _Let’s go,_ he said. It’s not like you weren’t planning on asking him to come along, but normally you have to drag him out of his place first or lure him with a vague promise of dropping by some housekeeping store to look at cleaning supplies. You were primed to bribe him with free lunch. He also certainly never replies within a minute. You look at your watch: it’s 8 AM. You only have enough time to prepare if you get out of bed at this second. You groan, but you send him an affirmative text anyway. After all, beggars can’t be choosy (though he strangely sounds to be the one begging this time, but you ignore it).

Sakusa fakes a sudden stomachache, promptly excusing himself to the bathroom. He announces this in his usual monotone that his teammates can never quite get a hang on to figure out whether he’s lying or simply telling them to piss off. He bolts to his room that he almost trips, takes his morning bath, fixes his hair, and somehow manages to escape through the backdoor by the fire exit without anyone noticing.  
.  
.  
.  
.

Two hours later, Kiyoomi is standing by the door of a flower shop he’s never been to before around town. He told you he’ll wait outside as you shop. He didn’t want to risk triggering his allergies and frankly, he’s not going to be of much help to you in there, anyway. You plan on doing a portrait of your grandmother for her death anniversary. You want to include a particular arrangement that your grandma loved—hydrangeas, her favorite, with white and pink roses—something you’re not able to find an accurate reference of from the internet and you want it to look perfect.

He also wasn’t surprised when you told him you want to get lunch at Onigiri Miya. Living on your own for how many years now, away from all the familiar comforts you’ve grown up with, has built in you a deep sense of independence that manages to dull whatever form of homesickness you don’t like dwelling on. Still, he knows of your small collection of fox keychains and fox mementos and sketches and overall affinity to foxes; the way you sometimes comment on the weather in Tokyo and absently compare it to how it must be like at this time of the year _back home_ ; or the fact that you still keep the pocket-sized vintage postcard of Hiimeji Castle you found in an alley store in Akihabara back in junior year safely in your wallet, a small, tangible piece of home you can safely hold in your hands.

And so you were thrilled when he broke the news that Onigiri Miya’s opening a Tokyo branch finally; too happy, in fact, that you were willing to cover the 40-minute train ride from your quiet area to bustling and crowded central Tokyo if it means experiencing even just a little something of Hyogo.

Moments later, he finally sees you walking out of the flower shop, the bouquet of pinks and whites fitted snugly in your arms.

“So tell me about this birthday party,” you ask, picking up from your conversation from earlier. You hear him sigh, the pained exhale of a 23-year-old suffering beyond his years.

“It’s tiring to even think about it. And it’s not a party. It’s basically them just wanting to eat,” he deadpans.

“Aw, don’t be glum.” You laugh, turning to him with a sweet, teasing smile. “I’m sure they’ll throw you a party too on your birthday.”

The look on his face is slowly morphing into that same face he had made to you after he’d spent the night at the school’s athletes’ quarters along with the entire college volleyball team and you had asked him the next day how the experience was like—you had called it a sleepover, much to his chagrin—to which he responded by looking at you dead in the eye and muttering a single word. _Devastating._ You’ve never brought it up since except to annoy him.

(That is to say that the expression is both disturbing and a little worrisome but also mildly entertaining.)

"Well, they will try. Again." You add.

He shakes his head. “I wanted to hide my birthday from the league forever, but it’s impossible and now it’s just right there on the MSBY website.”

You agree, remembering the players’ profiles that his team’s website updates once in a while, a fun feature that’s been a hit among fans. In a recent update—and by recent meaning last year, because Kiyoomi claims his primary interests in life have not changed (and he doubts he’s grown an inch since) much to their PR team’s dismay—he has decided to set his foot down: he would like to decline gifts from fans, please. To his horror, however, more and more gifts just kept coming his way, some even getting delivered to the MSBY dorms. He disagreed when you told him he just couldn’t stop fans from showing their love, he said “watch me.” And his ensuing attempts at escape from screaming herds of fans and speed-walking away from crowds and declining gifts with practiced respect or sometimes employing a teammate or two as body shields (a number of these teammates even playing along by doing the hand to earpiece thing and bodyguard stances with water bottles as walkie-talkies) have been too entertaining for you you honestly tell him it’s adorable, practically becoming a running gag between you and him. MSBY Twitter thinks so too, his silly attempts at escape religiously being documented with some of them even becoming semi-viral, much to his puzzlement.

He goes on to tell you all about the impromptu birthday circle from last night, the chaos that was this early morning, and the detailed plan to surprise their captain with his cake. It's all good fun and you laugh, charmed.  
.  
.  
.  
.

The two of you walk in silence for a while. He didn’t expect the flower shop to be this far from Onigiri Miya, but he’s fine with it. He decided to not bring his car because he enjoys walking with you.

It is while you both stop to wait at a pedestrian crossing that he notices the light bags under your eyes, but he doesn’t comment on them. Or have your eyes always been a little sunken this way, the shaded lower half seemingly more pronounced now that he hasn’t seen you in so long? He isn’t sure if the fingers wrapped around the flowers are somehow a little knobbier than he remembers, or if the taut skin of your exposed arms is how it’s normally been, but he suddenly realizes how your lips are a little paler than the usual light pink of pomegranate, a point of observation he doesn’t remember ever making before but he somehow catches at the back of his head. Oh, did he just pick up your habit of naming different shades of colors by familiar objects they closely resemble?—a practice you started doing whenever he’s around so he’ll learn to distinguish colors in his own way. (“Okay, listen: the shade of acid yellow is jarring and a little intrusive to the eyes like the yellow of ripe banana, _not unlike the yellow of Itachiyama’s jersey except that was more of the unripe variety…”_ ) If there’s anyone patient enough to even attempt to drill into him the difference between ivory white and Isabelline white, it’s got to be you. Not that he’ll remember half of it even if you dangle a pair of dirty socks to his face, his version of being pointed at with a gun—he has no passion for colors, he always tells you—but he also knows you will keep explaining these things to him again and again and he will always be there to listen.

There is a very light sheen of sweat on your forehead, he notices, that he’s sure isn’t a simple trick of the light. He then catches you by surprise when he takes your bag from your shoulder with the extended sleeve of his jacket. He does this without warning as you’re about to cross and you find it too late to form a response. You only smile but he doesn’t see. 

He remembers one other thing: “How’s your leg?” he asks. About a month ago, you had sent him a photo of your wrapped ankle with an accompanying text: _U were right. no more stuff on top shelf._

“Just the ankle, Omi, not the whole leg,” you roll your eyes, “and the ankle is healing just fine. Thank you.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t say much about it anymore because he’s already scolded you enough through the phone about the countless times he’s told you to not climb up the slippery marble top in your kitchen, or to simply get a chair, please, if you plan on taking something from the top shelf, which, he also clearly remembers, he’s advised you too many times already to stop using in the first place and just place your things in places you can reach. Now that you tend to travel a lot, who knows how many slippery kitchen tops or chairs in whatever city, in whatever hotel, you carelessly climb on top of to reach for things in your refusal to ask anybody for help. Not only that, but surely you’ve learned to build sturdier makeshift platforms to stand on when you do one of your murals? Now there’s a potential new fear to add to his long list of Minor and Major Fears that constantly plague his thoughts. He had been mulling this over one time and although he never uttered a single word, you quickly read the storm brewing behind his eyes and managed to quell before it spiraled: _‘There’s not many high cabinets in hotels, Kiyoomi, and I don’t bring too many stuff when I travel anyway. Look, I will always put my things where I can reach them from now on. I promise. I promise. I promise.’_

Some nights, he tries to recall the point at which he’s mixed up his fears for his own life and his fears for your safety in his long list of Worries, but it’s a struggle he finds himself too drained to dwell on for very long so he simply lets it be. And this is how you occupy his thoughts even on the days he doesn’t intend to, rent-free.  
.  
.  
.  
.

You hear the voices first before you actually enter, and when he mutters _wait_ to stop you from pulling the curtain open, it is too late. Miya Atsumu, Bokuto Koutarou, and Hinata Shouyo stop to stare, their hands freezing in mid-air in the middle of what seems to have been an animated discourse with wild gestures and lots of standing right before you came in.

There is a moment of quiet—a long, extended second as three pairs of eyes glance back and forth between you and the bouquet in your arms—before a unified shriek erupts from the table accompanied by lots of pointing that finally brings Miya Osamu himself out from the back of the kitchen, looking visibly annoyed. He sees you and Kiyoomi by the doorway and he jumps in surprise, right as he automatically blurts out a _“Welcome to Onigiri Miya!”_ before he scrunches his brows, suddenly looking clueless.

“Hey, hey, hey! Omi-Omi’s out with a girl!” Bokuto Koutaro bellows at the same time Hinata Shouyo blurts out: “Omi-san you never told us!” He is staring wide-eyed with an expression that manages to convey both hurt and amazement, his eyes sparkling.

“So here’s why you refuse to hang out with us today, huh?” Miya Atsumu is fast approaching and before either of you can react, he whips one long arm towards your direction, pointing at your flowers. “And don’t lie! You _are_ on a date!” He flashes you his megawatt smile, a mischievous look on his face. “Miya Atsumu. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Uhm. Yes, I know,” you find yourself saying before you can clamp your mouth shut. “I’d… watched you guys play volleyball in high school,” you say sheepishly, the Kansai inflection _just_ barely there, but for someone who’s listened to that same distinct speech pattern his whole life, Miya Atsumu isn’t one to miss it. You exchange a look with Kiyoomi, your mouth in a half-formed smile. “[Y/N], by the way,” you add like an afterthought, your free hand doing a hesitant wave.

There is a chorus of awe from the oddball group. Atsumu’s face shifts to an expression of warmth that you can’t properly name, and now he’s moving to envelope you in a hug. Your mind absently registers Kiyoomi instinctively stepping away from you, his long legs effectively covering a considerable distance in a matter of second, just as Atsumu seemingly changes his mind mid-action and instead settles on patting you awkwardly on your shoulders, his face a mix of pleasant surprise and familial affection. 

You find yourself smiling, touched by this brief camaraderie. For someone who had worked under a banner that supposedly shunned memories and aimed to leave yesterday behind, Miya Atsumu sure treasures familiarity and things that link back to the past. _Well, it’s been six years._ Still, you can’t blame him. You’ve been living in Tokyo for almost five years now and you still find yourself constantly on the lookout for any semblance of home, anything that makes you feel like you’re walking on familiar grounds. You admit this much to yourself.

Before you can even mentally prepare, Hinata Shouyo—Ninja Shouyo! your heart beams—is already shoving his hand at you to introduce himself, telling you his age and his height and his position in the team in one single breath. You don’t get the chance to tell him that you’ve seen enough MSBY Black Jackal games, both live and on TV, to know who he is, and that it’s mighty impossible for anyone to miss his lively, sunny presence on the court so you simply listen, amazed. You almost catch something about growing up in Miyagi and maybe some Portuguese (or Spanish? you can’t tell) mixed somewhere in there but Bokuto Koutaro is right beside him and is nodding and saying _‘That’s right!’_ with refreshing enthusiasm every other sentence. And then Bokuto is introducing himself and you only manage to catch the word _beam,_ before Miya Atsumu is once again right at your face asking for details on how you’ve met Omi-kun— _‘College,’_ you hear the brooding boy mutter from your side which nobody else seems to catch—and _what_ did you exactly like about him anyway and _WHAT WAS OMI-SAN LIKE BACK IN COLLEGE?_ Hinata is screaming above the babble of questions. Bokuto, meanwhile, seems to be just as content just standing there with his arms folded, looking at you and Kiyoomi and then back, with a look of pride, an expression that reminds you of a dad’s at the night of his son’s high school prom.

Kiyoomi calmly ignores the sudden onslaught of questions. “Why are you guys here, anyway.”

“We are celebrating Meian-san’s birthday, Omi-san!” Hinata chimes in.

“But I don’t see any Meian-san around.” _And why are you all three together._

“Well.” Hinata side-eyes his two teammates, an uncertain expression on his face. “He’s made it clear that he’ll be sleeping all morning because he didn’t get a good night’s sleep last night. Also, none of us actually know how to bake…”

Ah. Kiyoomi nods, thinking this through. “So no more birthday cake.”

The defeated look on their faces are serious enough that you’ll believe them if they say someone has died. “No more,” both overgrown men plus Hinata say in unison.

“Well, so here we are,” Bokuto sighs, a sincere smile on his face, “we just can’t bear with the lack of birthday spirit back there y'know, and Tsum-Tsum here says this is where he runs off to when he’s distressed.”

“Hey, cut it out, Bok-kun! You make it sound very melodramatic, or somethin’!” Drowning out Bokuto’s ‘But _you_ are melodramatic,’ he adds, “—and Rintarou is also here because he’s our pal and why not. Just taking a call outside.” As if on cue, Suna Rintarou emerges from the small hallway near the kitchen that either leads to the restroom or from somewhere else. It takes a quick second for him to register the two of you before he nods a greeting. “Sakusa.” He doesn’t take his hands out of his pockets. He blinks at you for a moment and then at the flowers, and back at you again, before he holds up a peace sign. “Hi,” he says.

“Hey, Suna-Rin, meet our new friend: this is [Y/N],” Atsumu gestures widely with his arms at you. “She’s from Ina High, too! And—“ he holds up his index finger—“she and Omi-kun are here on a date.”

Suna nods his head slowly between you and Kiyoomi as one side of his mouth curls up in a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Hi,” you open your mouth to protest. “We aren’t, though—“

“They’re a _thing,”_ Atsumu whispers loudly.

The small crowd around the table nods in general agreement at this, but before anyone else can say anything, you hear Kiyoomi sigh at your side. “Miya.“ He stops, suddenly remembering the other Miya in the room. “Atsumu. We aren’t on a date,” to which a crestfallen Bokuto opens his mouth to say something in protest, which Atsumu shushes. Kiyoomi pauses for a second, thinking carefully of his words: “And even if we are, what’s it to you?” 

His words are met with quiet _Oooo’s_ from Suna and a mix of a shocked and exasperated _Whaaat?_ from either Bokuto or Hinata—Hinata definitely about to pull his hair out and Bokuto staring, disbelieving—and a strangled gasp from Atsumu, clutching at his heart. 

But before any more words can be said, Osamu, bless him, finally steps out of the counter. “There now.” He then gestures to the quaint bar booth by the counter, “I’ll have you two sit right over here. _Away from the crowd,”_ he mutters seriously to Kiyoomi. 

“Hey, we’re hardly a party over here! And you can’t leave [Y/N]-chan alone with Omi-Omi; we wanna know her more!” Atsumu pouts. 

“Quiet you. Let the kids live.” Osamu winks at you playfully, a crooked smile on his mouth, before he disappears behind the kitchen.  
.  
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You mindlessly extend your hand awaiting the sanitizer Kiyoomi has taken out; he spritzes a small amount in one hand before handing you the bottle to do the same. A routine that’s second nature to you by now. He shifts in his seat, seeming a bit less stiff than when you two first arrived as Osamu watches the scene unfold in front of him with mild curiosity. You mutter a low _‘thanks,’_ which Osamu only knows you say because he’s looking closely. There is obvious ease in your movements and Sakusa’s, and if anybody ever complains about what a trouble obliging a germaphobe and relative hypochondriac’s “whimsies” is, Osamu thinks the sight of you two would render those complaints moot. The practiced ease, the way Sakusa’s brows seem to relax above his eyes while you talk to reveal a face that Osamu never imagined could ever appear so _open_ , the seemingly non-effort in doing a set of actions obviously done countless of times, in the way you hand him the water, wipe the utensils, set your phone aside… Osamu smiles to himself. There is a vacant seat between you and Sakusa where you’ve placed your bouquet and few belongings, yet in spite of the distance, the whole scene in front of him spells of intimacy. The distance between the two of you seems to him more a nonverbal way of emphasizing that you and this dark-haired boy with obvious endearment in his eyes (if one simply looks) are definitely _not_ on a date, guys, than a space in Sakusa’s personal bubble that he keeps you out of. Osamu finally looks away, grabbing whatever he needs and goes back to the kitchen to prepare your food, granting you the peace that you deserve.  
.  
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“They _can’t_ be separating already?” Atsumu whines as he quickly stands up and walks to the window the moment your shadows leave the door. Hinata tails after him right away with Bokuto already positioning his large body in one of the narrow walls, too narrow to actually cover his large frame but with just the perfect view that he’s willing to risk it. Osamu squats by his side, holding up a large menu board as if that’ll provide some adequate cover. Suna rolls his eyes at the tableau. 

Whether Sakusa is aware you are being observed, there is no indication. They simply watch as the two of you stand on the sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to the people milling by. His face is unreadable above his mask, as always, but they know his attention is fixed on you as you continue to talk with your hands, at one point Sakusa actually grabbing one hand to keep you from hitting a stranger passing by. He scrunches his eyebrows, seemingly more at your clumsiness than any sort of discomfort on his part, as if touching other people’s hands is something Kiyoomi-keep-your-body-away-from-me-and-stand-at-least-3-meters-away-Sakusa does on a normal basis nowadays. 

“Sakusa ordered her a small plate of Teppanyaki*,” Osamu whispers conspiratorially. “He said: ‘Hey, don’t forget your veggies.’” 

They all look at one another and nod, as if that confirms anything, and then Atsumu wonders out loud: “but did she eat all of it?” 

Osamu frowns, trying to remember. “She squinted at him at first and then ate some. Sakusa had it wrapped and _insisted_ she take it home.” 

There is a chorus of _Aaahhh_ with some obscure wiping of tears here and there while Hinata whispers a prolonged _‘Sweeeet!’_ There is obvious glee on his sunburnt face not unlike the look of triumph and admiration he throws Sakusa’s way whenever he hits one of his nasty spikes just a few centimeters shy of the end line to take a point for the team. 

_Also the bouquet I think’s not actually from him, something about a grandma,_ Osamu is beginning to explain in a low voice as if you and Kiyoomi can actually hear them, but Atsumu tells him to be quiet as they continue to watch. 

They see you about to do some sort of... hand gestures, but then you hold your hands up and hold them out again and then back again, unsure of how to proceed. They still have no idea what you guys are saying but now you’re holding your stomach laughing and Sakusa just stares at you, a pained look on his face. It was your idea to do a handshake in parting _because you are adults now,_ you say (to which he responds: “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been an adult for some time now”). It’s also more so as to keep your parting of ways lighthearted, because the alternative is him enumerating his handy list of instructions on how not to get yourself killed in his usual monotone that makes you smile, which will only remind you so much of your uni days and that’s just gonna make you even sadder. You don’t see each other as often as before anymore, you even have to set a date to just grab lunch together these days. Some part of you hurts at this knowledge, a tightening in your chest that somehow only Kiyoomi and anything that has to do with him can trigger, but of course you don’t tell him this. Still, handshake or no handshake, you know he’s still gonna part you with his usual litany of _Text once your home, disinfect your phone, DON’T stand on your kitchen marble top, place your stuff where you can reach them, eat_ —ad infinitum. 

“A secret handshake,” Suna deadpans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

But the two of you end up doing a normal handshake and Kiyoomi is shaking his head. As if remembering just then, he whips out his hand sanitizer from his pocket and makes a show of applying a hefty amount on both of his hands. They hear you say something in an annoyed tone but he doesn’t respond, and now he’s taking both your hands in his to spread the sanitizer on them and you whine a sound of disapproval (“Now you’re just being rude!”). They watch him dodge as you attempt to hit his arm with your bag at the same time he calmly tells you to _mind the flowers._ Kiyoomi’s facial expression is still kept hidden behind his mask, but they see his broad shoulders move way easier than they’ve ever seen and there’s that slight crinkling in his eyes. 

And they know. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*lightly fried vegetable dish)
> 
> Three chapters in and I still don't know what to call this but please know that I appreciate the comments/kudos and let me tell you that all I want is to write every chapter with as much care and love today, tomorrow, and all the way leading up to the very last, and if I manage to play my cards right, to finish at any point and still be satisfied (okay, I practically stole these lines from Sakusa but I am half-serious. I think this is to say that, uh, I may end it right here and hopefully I end it right. Meaning it's fine...).
> 
> If you’re reading this please know that I appreciate your having gone this far. Wash your hands, stay safe, don’t die, make Sakusa Kiyoomi proud.
> 
> Please leave me comments, wanna know what you guys think! <3


	4. self-portrait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sakusa was always thinking, you realized. In his quiet moments like this, you always felt like you could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. It fascinated you to learn that for anything that was said, for all questions asked, he would always have a well-thought out answer.
> 
> There was that calm intensity that you could now identify in his otherwise opaque eyes; the quiet attentiveness of a person whose entire universe was all sorted out.
> 
> —
> 
> Art-talk

You weren’t entirely sure how it began but maybe it was when he seemed interested enough about something you said re: your favorite soap that you somehow ended up going on a full five-minute spiel on why this certain vanilla-scented brand was superior than any other brand based solely on its superior packaging. You hated how you sounded like the assistant prof on your first day in marketing class who yammered on about textbook branding definitions and all that baloney that made your ears hurt, but you both knew you were just pulling his leg. 

Still, you threw in a sarcastic grin. “I’m half-kidding, just to be clear,” you muttered.

He only cocked his head at you, a low hum as if to say he’s unconvinced, but his eyes narrowed just a little bit and you figured he’s just as bored as you to not play along.

“My eyes, though untrained in matters of aesthetics, tell me the packaging is not at all _that_ great,” he drawled, his intonation unvarying. “Although it does look a whole lot better compared to just about half the scented candles out there looking like exposed rotten blocks of cheese.”

He sounded almost disinterested but his choice of words clearly reflected the seriousness with which he’s addressing the matter. You almost laughed, but you only look at him with equal severity in your eyes, accepting the small challenge. But then you couldn’t keep your lips from twisting anymore and you broke eye contact.

“Rotten blocks of cheese,” you shook your head, smiling privately. The prof had gotten back to the front of the class right then before you could come up with a witty comeback.

Or maybe it was when he had asked, upon first learning that you were from Inarizaki, what you honestly thought of your volleyball team’s banner. You did not miss the subtle emphasis when he said _‘honestly,’_ as if every Inarizaki person he’d so far encountered in his life automatically and unquestioningly lived by those words to the core. You said wait, because you had in fact ruminated on it countless of times in the past and you’d come out with very mixed feelings, except nobody had ever asked you before for you to articulate them properly. That, again, was another almost-monologue which you now recall with a bit of embarrassment. 

No, you correct yourself out loud. It was definitely in the fine arts studio, you tell him, that one Wednesday afternoon when he came in from a run while you were painting. That was your favorite initial meeting. Although if you ask him, he says, he still thinks it was when he met you for the first time at the outdoor sink by the college gym, you with the disheveled milkmaid hair and paint-smeared skirt and the fading hand-drawn doodles at the back of your hands, looking very serious as you washed your assortment of brushes with meticulous care. Though he’ll concur that the studio one was special, and no you weren’t painting when he got there, you were wrapping up and about to go. He remembers this very clearly.

You see all of it now, too. You just finished an entire afternoon’s work on a painting project when you caught his looming figure by the door of the studio. You had a momentary heart attack, your palm moving swiftly to your heart. Sakusa Kiyoomi was very tall and it was disorienting to see how with a simple stretch of one arm his fingers could touch the top of the door frame.

“Hello,” you heard yourself say, staring at him embarrassingly longer than what’s maybe socially acceptable because you really weren’t expecting anyone to be here at this hour. Not Sakusa, of all people. You entertained the idea that perhaps you forgot something at your table from class earlier and he’s there to give it back, but he’s clearly not carrying his bag or anything else with him right now. Did he want to start on your lab work already and you somehow agreed on a study session tonight? Again, no bag—

“Hi.” His voice was full and slightly clearer without a face mask in a way that stopped your humdrum of thoughts. He had his hands inside the front pockets of his black hoodie and his forehead slightly glistened with a thin veil of sweat. He had been running, you realized, judging on the shorts and compression leggings. You watched him work his jaw and you half-expected him to say more, but he simply proceeded to step inside.

The art studios were essentially a space where Humanities students can work on their stuff freely. It’s relatively spacious with big windows and a high ceiling that’s mostly designated for painting sessions and mini exhibits or for storing canvases and paint and other materials that needed temporary housing to be utilised at a later date for the classes upstairs. That said, non-art students were still very much welcome. There were couches and small tables where people were free to watch someone paint or just simply hang out in, the only unspoken rule being that they got to be quiet when someone was working. Outsiders were always respectful of this, which was why it’s still generally agreed upon that as long as there’s one student inside with the key, anybody’s free to hang. Of course, there was also the temporary collection every three weeks in a separate area, which anyone within the campus can have access to.

So really, this shouldn’t surprise you. 

“Killing time,” you heard him say, as if reading your thoughts. “I haven’t explored this part of school yet. Heard it’s a nice place.” He said this as he looked over your shoulder at the airy windows. 

“Too bad you missed twilight,” you began to say, “because that’s when it’s truly magical.” There’s nothing much out there anymore, but you could still see the light purple streaks on the gradient sky from earlier, remnants of a fevered sunset that reminded you so much of Munch in that it made you feel both pleasant and terrified. 

He nodded at your half-covered canvas. “I see you’re about to go, though.” He said this while his eyes did a quick scan of the room, a gesture that could be translated as him taking it all in before leaving with no plans of coming back. “It’s not bad,” was his neutral assessment. A box ticked on a list of places to explore around campus, maybe.

“Oh, you wanna take a look around? Please, go ahead!” You smiled reassuringly. “I still need to get my brushes cleaned and that’s gonna take a while. So.” _And you can stay for as long as you like,_ you almost added. It delighted you when non-art majors came wondering in to admire the works. They’d usually ask a question or two and you’re usually the only one around to answer and you’d oblige. The idea of someone willingly taking steps towards appreciating art more, no matter how small, made you happy.

He regarded your words for a moment. You were quite sure he was going to leave, but then he simply nodded. “Alright. Thanks,” he said. You only caught his half-formed smile as he finally turned, deliberating on where to start first.

It took you several minutes to get everything cleaned up and when you stepped out of the bathroom, he was standing in front of a work by Balthus. His eyebrows were knitted together, either in annoyance or confusion, you couldn’t tell. You stood beside him in silence for some time.

“That artist was known for his fixation with cats,” you informed him keenly, but then changed your tone. “And prepubescent girls. This one isn’t anything close to the more provocative poses he painted of them.”

He thought about this for a moment, his face unreadable. “You don’t sound like you like him,” he intoned. You scrunched your nose almost out of reflex.

“Not particularly, no.” Expounding on your feelings on Balthus took a lot of energy, but you honored his curiosity and answered as honestly as you could. “It’s hard to separate the work from the artist. It’s also hard to ignore all the unsettling things we know about him now. Even so, responses to his paintings also reveal more about the viewer than it did his desires, and I think that’s also a conversation worth having.” You sneaked a glance towards him at the same time he did from the corner of his eyes. You offered a genial shrug. “He’s just not exactly my fave.”

Sakusa was always thinking, you realized. In his quiet moments like this, and there would be many more in the future, you always felt like you could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. It fascinated you when you soon learned that for anything that was said, for all questions asked, he would always have a well-thought out answer. Every single thought would be given time and space and that was something you appreciated. You’d eventually learn to get used to his thinking patterns, but at that moment, you were just content with the knowledge that he really had been listening to _know._

“You feel like if it were any other artist, it would’ve been deemed tasteless, but for him this is par for the course,” he said. It didn’t sound like a question, but he looked over at you with an expression that was open to any objection on your part if he happened to have assumed too much.

You could not have worded that as succinctly as he did, but then again, you weren’t exactly the best when it comes to words. You smiled in acknowledgment. “You’re not wrong. It’s like he’s claiming to tell these stories that should’ve come from more reliable, more suitable voices. Sensual desires of young girls…or of any woman, for that matter, that’s not necessarily his story to tell. And now he’s the one with all these paintings, he’s the one we get to talk about. I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right.”

You could still feel his eyes on you but he didn’t say anything, so you continued. “But then again, these paintings wouldn’t have gotten that much attention in the first place if the painter was a woman.” You sighed. “Hence, no conversation then. But it’s pointless to think about that now.”

He nodded. “I get what you mean.” And you knew that he did. “Because the fact still stands that it was him who painted these and no one else. Nothing can change that now.”

“Exactly.”

You’d never looked at the young girls in Balthus paintings for this long in your life, but right then, it felt like the two of you could just stand there side by side forever. There was that calm intensity that you could now identify in his otherwise opaque eyes; the quiet attentiveness of a person whose entire universe was all sorted out.  


* 

You weren’t expecting to see him waiting just outside right after you’ve finished locking up. There was that mild flip of your heart again when you first spotted his dark figure leaning against the window, washed out with his silhouette delineated by the moonlight. If his unexpected appearance was going to give you mild heart attacks every single time, then you were bound to die very early. He didn’t seem to notice it though, and once he saw that you were done, he simply straightened and walked towards the stairs. His pace slowed just as you were able to match his steps by his side. You were both going the same direction after all.

A minor dilemma suddenly presented itself: you were getting hungry and should you invite Sakusa to get dinner at the dorm cafeteria as well? A part of you knew he’d hate the food there but, well, that’s the nearest open food place right now and he just might want to get food before going up to his room. Who knew what Sakusa Kiyoomi’s plans were that night, but you wouldn’t mind the company to be honest, so you extended your invitation.

He turned his head to look at you, surprised, or at least you thought so. You haven’t been around him long enough to fully see his range of expressions after all. He lowered his eyes for a moment as if thinking this through, the dark fan of his lashes brushing his cheeks. Finally, he looked up, only the faintest movement of his jaw hinting at a genial expression.

“I better get into the shower and change,” he said. “Shouldn’t have stayed in these clothes for very long. I kind of lost track of the time.”

“Oh,” you did not expect the slight disappointment you felt at the pit of your stomach, but it’s also as if you remembered only then that he had been out on a run. “Of course,” you said, relieved your voice came out steady. “That’s okay.”

You continued to walk in silence, your bag slung on the side facing away so you’re careful not to accidentally touch his hand. It was late and you could see the faint outline of the top of the girls’ dorms protruding out of the dark expanse of night, the brutalist contours reminding you of a Cubist painting display at the school’s health clinic which you did’t like very much. The structure, not the painting nor the clinic. The wind felt crisp against your cheek and you silently worried that he might catch a cold, what with him still in his running clothes. Finally, you were at the fork on the road where you’re supposed to go your separate ways and you turned for a final goodbye.

“Well, see you in class, Sakusa-san,” you smiled, to which he raised his hand for a wave. “Hope you had a great time at the studio tonight.”

His hand hovered for only a second, giving it a thought, but it was quick and his eyes were back again in a flash. “I did. Thanks.” His mouth curved into what you considered a smile, a slight gesture that although did not quite reach his ears you knew was sincere, a piece in his growing range of expressions that you felt accomplished to have unlocked.

“I’m glad,” you waved back before turning on your heels. You only managed a few steps to your direction, however, when you heard his voice again. “Ah, [L/N].” You paused in your steps, turning.

You caught the momentary twitch of his eyebrows, as if he had said words that he didn’t have a follow-up for. An uncharacteristic lapse. “Maybe next time,” he finally said and you blinked in response. He cleared his throat, his eyes now refocusing on you. “Next time we can get dinner.” 

You’ll only get the chance to ask him several years later, as you’re seated on your spot on his couch, whether or not he did catch a cold after that. (You won’t need to elaborate on details because just like all the others this one he still fully remembers, from the single long braid on your back and the taped fingers you hugged your brushes with down to the Balthus replica by the door he didn’t like but he kind of ended up staring at for very long as he tried to think of something to say.) He’ll say no, thank god, and you’ll turn to squint at his hair, still damp from his post-run shower. “But why’d you stay out for long then,” you’ll ask, “even though you knew better?”

“I—“ He’ll begin, before turning to fully stare at your puzzled face, a look in his eyes that briefly says _but you probably already know the answer._ Still, he’ll spell it out neatly: “Because I wanted to talk to _you_ ,” accompanied by a shrug, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  
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And so that’s how it went.

Sakusa asked all kinds of questions. Important ones, simple ones, heavy-implying almost assertions you got to challenge, mundane queries out of nowhere but coming from him would always seem to carry weight, much like how he’d stand in a corner with his face half-covered with that slouch and his multiple layers of clothing but still gained the attention of everyone in the room without uttering a single word. (Although you’d also factor in the fact that he stood a good six feet how many inches that he literally towered over most people.) And for all his exterior detachment and guardedness, he’d make the effort to talk to you, which maybe was a feat if you thought about the fact that he exerted just as much effort on staying as far away as physically possible from everyone with a permanent scowl on his face that clearly communicated this. Not that this made him any less popular among your peers; he wasn’t a snob by any means and he somehow managed to make things work within his boundaries, and sure, the volleyball and his apparent knack for doing everything _just right_ helped.

Sometimes, though, it’s the simpler questions that took you a second longer to answer, catching you off-guard.

“Aren’t you gonna eat?”

It was nine in the evening. You told yourself before starting to work that you were going to leave at seven. This wasn’t new and it’s often only once you’ve realized that you were past dinnertime and you still haven’t eaten that you’d realize how hungry you’d actually been.

“Oh. Shoot.” Your eyes widened at the realization. Your gaze travelled from the paintbrush around your fingers to the partly covered barrels of paint at your feet, then back to the still-wet canvas in front of you. You sighed, setting your stuff down and getting off your seat. “Guess I should start packing up. How about you, have you gotten dinner?”

“I already ate after practice.” Of course. He just came in quietly about thirty minutes ago with his hair still slightly damp and he’s wearing a mask and none of his running gear so you knew he’d been training. He wandered around the newly opened temporary collection without his usual questions. Nothing seemed to have sparked his interest this time.

He didn’t move from the spot where he stood while you covered the paint barrels and proceeded to examine the canvas. When you turned to see him staring, you could see the slightly tense expression in his eyes. He blinked slowly once, as if easing whatever was behind them, and when he opened them his face was impassive again.

“The school cafeteria closes at 10. They accept deliveries from 6PM onwards until 30 minutes before closing—“ he made a quick glance to his wrist watch, “—which, if you call now, you’d still be able to make. They have a phone number in the directory by the door.” 

And just like that he turned on his heels, sauntering off as quietly as he came before you could even process his words, except you watched him this time, your gaze fixed on the rigid expanse of his back.

The next Wednesday, it wasn’t your growling stomach that made you pause. It was the way a basket full of tracing papers got toppled over by the sudden breeze, like some divine wind that not only made you look towards the creaking window to see the sky already completely black, but also reminded you of Sakusa’s chilly retreat. With a sigh, you set your brushes aside and called the caf, ordered food, and took a long break, quieting that inner voice that had started taking root at the back of your head. You wouldn’t forget dinner this time. Yes. Of course. Why not. 

You’d blame it on your tendency to narrowly focus on a thing once you get really into it, for better or for worse. But when you’d forget even when you weren’t doing anything—when you’re on a slump—you had no one else to blame but yourself. To be fair though, on really bad days, you’d forget a lot of things altogether. 

You hadn’t painted anything in weeks. You hadn’t been to the studio to assess your progress. In class you’d scribble absentmindedly on one forearm possibly because it gave you an excuse to create something that you could justifiably expect to suck, but then you’d rush to your dorm afterwards and scrub it away until your arm went red, leaving slightly bruised, juvenile marks that you hated. You hated this, but it’s as if there was nothing else valid enough to be. It’s okay, you will get through it, you told yourself, because you always did. It’s not like you were dying.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to explain how art wasn’t simply about practicing, learning, and having to create stuff every day to keep the engine running, because artists weren’t machines; no, the very thing that drove them to create was also baggage in the artist’s mind and lifestyle. Being an artist often implied having your mood depend on your creation, and vice versa. This was a simple truth that you simply have to accept everyday, but at the same time it’s not something you wanted to make an excuse out of. There just seemed to be days when you’d start to feel like you’re losing your colors, and you’d learned to brave through them.

If Sakusa noticed the growing frequency of your digging into your fingers with your nails, scraping into callouses and picking away, he didn’t say anything. At least, not at first. You would, however, take a little longer to answer his questions, sometimes even settle with short ones to which there was nothing else to respond to. At the end of the class, you’d get up and leave before anyone else got out of the door and disappeared into your dorm. Waiting.

Perhaps it was those accumulating small things that finally resulted to what happened after a few days. The two of you were seated at both ends of the one available couch at the library’s 3rd floor circulation room. It was during lunch break before your English class and you’d agreed on meeting up for a bit to look for answers together for your shared Chem homework, two heads being better than one.

You were starting to feel uneasy. Whatever you were reading wasn’t registering anything in your head and you felt impatient and irritated, to no one else but yourself, maybe, or perhaps also at how the room being too quiet was slowly getting to you, which was strange because you have practically lived in libraries your whole school life. Or was it because you knew of how the couch wasn’t big enough to pass any of Sakusa’s accustomed threshold for personal comfort? Not that you’d assume you knew the full parameter of this threshold even, although you had gotten used to being more accustomed to other people, especially to Sakusa’s tricky ways, that you couldn’t even remember at which point you’d started caring. A rogue thought crossed your mind: was it possible you found it harder to read people during times when you yourself seemed lost within your head, when you retreated back in, unable to process yourself and the world around you like how you could not, for the sake of dear life, figure out these jumble of scientific words from this textbook right now?

“Quit that.” 

His voice startled you from whatever was lurking behind the block of words you were trying to decipher. Your fingers clenched on instinct, knowing exactly what he meant, and you stared at him for one long second.

“Ah.” You inched your hand nearer to your lap as if shielding him away from the bruises, the picked skin, or whatever was offending him. “Sorry.”

You breathed through your nose once and turned the page. To hell with whatever passage you couldn’t move on from, you’d get back to it later, and you’re sure Sakusa would have an answer to it if ever you didn’t. You only hoped he didn’t notice how you mustn’t have turned the page for over twenty minutes now, belying the fact that you, in the current duration of your studying, have not been able to absorb anything. But of course he would, like how he’d notice everything. You couldn’t name one thing he’d notice now that your head’s in a mush, but something like on some days your fingers were covered in scabs, maybe, or how sometimes your written answers on your shared tests were shorter because your fingers hurt, which was stupid, at this point you knew you were just assuming—

You heard his quick exhale almost _after_ your eye caught the quick flash of his hand to your side. It was like that thing from the book you tried reading last year, the one with the rocket that fell first and obliterated the place and _then_ people would hear the whistle of its descent if they were still around. Which was physically impossible but was also the point. Or was it the other way around? Even your analogies have gone half-assed, you thought, but you found it hard to focus on analogies when Sakusa Kiyoomi’s hand was shoved in-between yours, holding it in a tight grip as if to shield your fingers from the attacking nails. You turned to him again to see his gaze still fixed on the page he’s reading. Nothing in his posture told you anything, but you watched the way his face was contorted in a deep frown, his head slightly tilted, supported by his free hand on his temple. You’d known him enough by this time to know that when he’s touching his face then it must be really bad.

He didn’t look like he was about to explain himself but his hold was firm—almost too firm—as if you might pull back anytime now and he’s not going to let you. But you couldn’t, not with his long fingers effectively enclosing yours fully, no problem. And maybe you also didn’t want to, you thought. Because as much as you didn’t understand whatever was running in his mind, you couldn’t help but recognize that there was a part of you that sagged with a misplaced sense of ease at the very idea that this time, there was something else standing between you and yourself. A hand, or a dense and indecipherable Chemistry totem, or a whole six feet how many inches of solid form. Maybe you had wanted someone to make it stop and you didn’t even recognize it until then.

You felt yourself wanting to throw up in a fleeting moment of self-hate.

“One of these days you're not gonna be able to stop the bleeding,” his monotone voice interrupted your thoughts for the nth time that day, his other hand simultaneously turning a page. “Or worse, your nails will fall off.” You felt he was about to say more but just as you were anticipating his words his mouth clamped shut.

No. He wasn’t looking after you, you thought; he was just more attuned with the things that he disliked.

“I know. Thanks.” You said sarcastically, your voice low, sounding irritated even when you didn’t mean to; you couldn’t stop yourself and you hated that. “Next time, I’ll just make sure to punch the wall then.” 

He was quiet but you felt his hand softening into a firm hold; still enclosing your fingers but no longer gripping. He wasn’t letting go, so you weren’t letting go. There was no competition, nothing at all for either of you to prove or gain, but for some reason the both you just held on.

“Yeah, do that.” His voice seemed to have come from somewhere deep and hidden and he didn’t sound angry but there was that resoluteness to it that you didn’t feel like challenging. Sakusa had never sounded angry at you before so you never really had any basis.

Instead, you just responded with a deep sigh as you always did when faced with things you neither had the resources nor the energy to understand, sounding defeated more than anything. And at the very instant you heard the bell ring, you slammed your book shut and got up, unlinking your hand from his, leaving with as much haste as you could without tripping—breaking whatever sort of connection that was that might’ve given you the remotest chance at decoding the puzzle that was Sakusa Kiyoomi.  
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You stared at your ceiling for as long as you could before you finally sat up on your bed. You sighed, you couldn’t possibly sleep yourself through this from 3PM straight. Still in your long coat and outdoor clothes, you could only think of one person who’d be displeased if they ever found out and the fact that it wasn’t your mom unsettled you. The room was already dark at half past seven but you still refused to look at your right hand, as if the very sight of it could trigger things you didn’t have the energy in you to probe right now. You felt it though, as well as the now apparent emptiness at the space where Sakusa’s fingers had been. At this, you shot out of bed and clapped both hands to your cheeks together. You needed to clear your head before you could face anyone else and there was only one place you could trust in the whole campus.

Except the gods must not be willing to give you a break today as you stepped into the art studio and came face-to-face with a maskless Sakusa, the very person you were least ready to present your currently crude self. He wasn’t alone in the whole area, no; you recognized a professor curator scrutinizing an artwork at the very back so that explained how he had access. If you left now you’d only seem rude, you thought. You sighed, unwilling to succumb to the growing feeling of unease and walked in.

“Hello,” you cleared your throat as you spoke, an uncanny sense of deja vu fleeting across your mind. This time, however, he was the one in front of the canvas and you by the door, feeling small and not just in stature.

“Hi,” he said in a voice that was almost quiet, caught in a moment of deep concentration but not surprised. There wasn’t that sense of detachment that you expected in his eyes, or any sign of anything even remotely awkward from your morning encounter. He simply nodded in acknowledgement before finally returning to the display he’d been looking at. You could see he just came from a run.

You made your way among the paintings lined up on the wall, the miniature sculptures from a senior class, a note on a plain canvas of not-quite-ultramarine blue that said _‘still wet, stay away.’_ This was the first time you’ve gone back to the studio after how many weeks; the first time too, since you couldn’t remember when, that you’ve entered the room without any real objective of being productive, peering at the display of artworks and really seeing them as if for the first time. You glanced at the big wall on the side to see what the current collection was called. _Sacred Realism,_ it said, a big plastered text set in serif: _‘A study of how urban spaces are portrayed through the lenses of realism, as shown in the paintings of famous artists through the years.’_

The phrasing of that first paragraph could use some work, you thought, but you didn’t mind; you had an idea what the paintings were going to be and you smiled. Even without seeing Sakusa here tonight, looking engrossed at the same painting you didn’t have an idea for how long now, you somehow knew that he was going to appreciate this collection. You walked to where he was standing.

You spared a glance at his face once you stood side by side; there was that unwavering concentration of his that was almost meditative. Sakusa could get and _look_ very serious even when he didn’t mean to, you’d come to realize. When he peered through the microscope a second time and turned a problem over in his head; when he’d patiently wait at his seat for the whole class to get out of the door so he wouldn’t have to crowd along with them; in the brief seconds you’d see him internally debating whether the flask that was handed out was worth touching with his bare fingers—which you’d always end up swiping from his side without much thought and proceeding to wipe down the glass before he could even decide—all these were faces that could easily scare people away even when he wasn’t frowning. But you’d also come to appreciate the subtle ways his eyes didn’t quite glower—and were instead attentive and receptive as compared to challenging—when he was simply, truly thinking. Instead, there was this quiet and you’d say solemn expression almost akin to peace, as distinct from the inaccessible, almost opaque cast on his face when he’s truly displeased. There’s another important distinction you’d come to carefully discern in his varying degrees of annoyance: that there was a Sakusa when he’s prickly and blunt, and there was that rare side of him too that kept certain troubles to himself, a Sakusa who’d go uncharacteristically quiet about things, big or small, that he could not have full control over. 

You tried to think of a time when you hadn’t been overanalyzing every changes in his face but you couldn’t remember when.

“What about him,” he nodded to the painting, not tearing his eyes away. “What was he fixated on?” You hummed quietly as a way of recalibrating your thoughts. _Nighthawks._

“I wouldn’t call it fixation, not really, but he did stick to certain themes,” you began and then frowned. That wasn’t a very helpful piece of information for your first art analysis in weeks; every great artist _had_ themes. You licked your lips and thought your words through before proceeding. “His subjects were mostly isolated figures inhabiting anonymous urban spaces—cafes, restaurants, theater houses. They’re usually alone within the canvas, and even when they aren’t, it’s like…they aren’t together _together._ Like these two.” You pointed a finger at the man and the woman seated beside each other inside the brightly-lit diner. “Their chairs are side by side, but there’s almost no sense of interaction between them. Their hands overlap but they don’t quite touch. They could be a couple, they could be in a fight, but we can’t really tell. The other people, of course, are all far apart. It’s like they exist in entirely different worlds.”

You tilted your head to the side a bit. “I guess, you could say he was fixated on solitude, or boredom…resignation. Those things.”

You heard him hum, thinking, moving in a bit closer to study something before his eyes did a fleeting scan between one smaller painting beside it and then the next as if to compare. “And windows,” he said, stepping back. “Is this supposed to be a big window?”

“Oh, right,” you said. “That’s his other thing. He also painted a lot of windows, sometimes the subjects are outside and you see like a house or a store nearby. Other times they’re indoors, and it’s as if you, the viewer, are in some place you’re not supposed to be in, like the wall, or you’re this outsider looking in. The subjects…they’re almost always looking away,” you paused, searching for the word, “it gives this sense of voyeurism, also emphasizes the subject’s being alone.”

You peeked at his face, making sure he’s still listening. “Hopper believed that people can be penetrated too, just like houses—”

“But there’s no way in,” he finished without missing a beat. “Except through just looking.”

You nodded, quite impressed with this observation. “Yes. Inviting you to look, to study, to trust the movement of your eyes.”

You gave him room to run these thoughts over in his head, amazed at how receptive he was of information. You watched as his gaze travelled to check the date written on the small card on the side. “New York. I’m surprised he didn’t get into abstract painting or experimented with other styles,” he said, remembering your brief conversation about this certain time era. 

“Oh, you know what else is interesting about Hopper? In spite of the emerging new styles in America and in Europe—a lot of artists were starting to get into Abstract, or Modernism—he kept painting in this certain style, that’s…well, rightly called Realism, but not quite. His canvasses had always been that way: clean, smooth, almost too real.”

He nodded, the first smile you saw from him that day: “a stubborn Realist,” and you could see how this would appeal to him. “But not too real as…” he craned his neck to a painting he must’ve been looking at prior, “Wyeth’s, over there. This one seems more…detached.” 

You smiled. It suddenly dawned on you that you’d missed having these conversations with him and there was no point in denying that. “Yes. ‘Detached’ is a good way to describe it.”

He went on to study a couple more Hopper, before he turned around to focus on you. “You’ve never told me your favorite painting.”

Your eyes fixed on a spot on the floor as you thought this through. You could tell him any number of paintings that you did love and you could even describe them in great detail even if they weren’t here, your art major knowledge being ever-reliable. But there was really only one that had stuck with you through the years. Your reasons for it were nothing fancy, in the way that, say, Artemisia Gentileschi’s _Judith Slaying Holofernes_ could easily bring out more interesting talk about empowerment and helplessness, or the way Judith the biblical character had been portrayed in different ways. Not that there wasn’t anything interesting to say about your favorite painting—there was a lot—but it’s just that everybody seemed to be in love or familiar with it already that there was almost nothing left for you to say anymore. There was that sudden pang in your chest that you inwardly hated, that thirteen-year-old you that hated loving the same thing as everybody else. But you knew better now; you’d learned through experience that although there were parts of you that stood apart from others and you fought to protect, at the end of the day it was really, truly more important to be kind above all else. There was no real value in pretending you were more interesting than you actually were.

You didn’t realize that you had been staring at him squarely in the face for some time, your eyes slightly narrowed in thought. He raised an eyebrow; puzzled. “Is it here?” You had decided.

“Yes, I’ll show you.”

It took you some time to navigate around the dividers to find what you were looking for, not knowing where it was exactly, but any showcase of anything that had to do with urban and Realism would be incomplete without this piece so you were sure it’s going to be there. Finally, you found it—a framed print of your favorite painting in the world.

 _“The Starry Night,”_ you heard him say. You almost laughed; everybody did recognize it. You from years ago thought that it was almost a cliche, loving van Gogh, but you understood now that there was good reason for anyone to be drawn to him. He tilted his head to look at you without a word, as if asking you _why?_

You gave yourself a moment to make a mental outline before answering: 

“There's just so many layers to it that I absolutely love. Van Gogh had such a distinct style that when you see any of his works you already know it’s his. He didn’t strive to reproduce exactly what was right before his eyes; instead, he used color more arbitrarily to express himself forcibly. In this case, rather than paint the stars faithfully, it’s like he just—“ you gestured wildly with your hands, squinting at the words, “—gave up on colors altogether and painted these swirling yellows against a bright blue. Now _there’s_ an interesting contrast.”

You held an index finger up.

“The stars look bright and unrealistically big, but in comparison, the town underneath is…almost featureless, almost lifeless, flowing alongside the curves of the trees and the hills, almost indistinguishable. It’s easy to get drawn to the stars with their vivid colors; they’re just too striking, too…intrusive, as if forcing you to look at them and nowhere else.” You turned to him to emphasize your words further: “It’s also important to note that this was the view from an asylum window where he had committed himself. He died a year later from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at age 37, thinking he was a failure as an artist.”

You continued to gaze at him, anticipating a response, but after a while he simply nodded, seemingly unconvinced after everything you just said. “Hm. Okay.” His eyes narrowed. “But why do _you_ like it?”

“I—“ you felt yourself about to protest but then stopped. Oh, you thought, suddenly drawing a blank. You closed your mouth shut, struggling with the words in your head because nobody had really gone this far to ask you this before. Because people were often content to know why something was beautiful but nobody usually ventured to understand why it’s beautiful to _someone._ You closed your eyes in quiet concentration because although yes, the ever-reliable art major in you could easily explain away the stuff you learned about art, nothing else could ever adequately prepare you and your words when it came to explaining stuff that actually came from the heart. This too, you knew there was no other way to learn but through experience. But was it worth the time and the energy to bare this side of you to a boy you’d only grown to have fond conversations with? What’s he going to gain from this knowledge anyway? But then again, a part of you insisted, you promised that you were going to honor his honest curiosity by giving him only equally honest answers. Besides, what did you have to lose?

When you opened your eyes, he was still looking at you.

“Well,” you sustained the syllable. “I started painting at a very young age. I didn’t have that much art background in the family, but I was always scribbling on all the books and tables and the walls. My mom hated it, but my dad absolutely loved that, so he kept buying me papers and crayons and eventually paint and stuff.

“In art classes at school though, we’re always made to draw perfect shapes, straight lines, trees with rounded leaves,” you paused, smiling at the memory. “Well, my drawings weren’t like that; I drew my trees jagged and almost…square, the branches almost arms-like because they did look like they got arms and they scared me, and I colored the sun’s yellow outside the lines because I felt it’s too bright its colors would spill. I was told in the gentlest of ways that I needed to color and draw a certain way, but my dad wouldn’t have it. He said I should always scribble and paint just the way I wanted to.

“But then in middle school, I started seeing classmates who were more talented than me, a _lot_ more. Kids who drew and painted in certain styles that often ended up getting the better grades, that got the more attention, that I got pretty much convinced that my work truly sucked.” You almost laughed. “It all seems petty now, but I did get pretty discouraged for a time, thinking that I wasn’t good enough.” An eye roll. “So I tried doing a bunch of different styles, experimenting with stuff that I _wasn’t._ It was somewhat a productive period, when I think about it now, because at least I got to see what wasn’t for me. But then I ended up focusing more on my failures and the lack of external validation. In time, I got more and more depressed and hated the things I did; not only was there no one else who appreciated them, but I hated them myself.”

You blinked your eyes unseeingly, but your memory felt vivid. “And that was when my dad showed me a picture of this painting. He said, ‘look here closely, there’s something important you need to know.’ And I stared at the swirling yellow orbs and dark mass of the town, and I couldn’t help but think it was almost ugly. It was nothing like the elaborate, more realistic classics I’d grown up loving; the standard I’d learned to judge my work against. But then I recognized the heavy strokes of the brush, the inaccurate, almost formless shapes, and I knew this was a person who felt the urgency to paint this, who felt the urgency to _paint._ Which was exactly what he kept doing for as long as he lived even when most of the world failed to appreciate it…

“Who knew what the night sky was like that night; to van Gogh, however, this was how he wanted it to look, so he painted it with these bright masses of yellow. I didn’t learn to appreciate all of it at once, but this was the first painting that helped me see that there are many ways for beauty to exist in this world. I’ve seen a whole lot of others through the years, but—“ you stopped in mid-sentence, no longer seeing the painting as the realization slowly grew in your mind. Your thoughts were now as clear as ever, as your next sentence came out in an almost whisper:

“But it’s the one I always keep coming back to when in doubt. Without fail.”

You finished with a smile, looking up at him, finally at ease. You’re both quiet for some time, standing there like it’s the only painting in the room that was left for you to look at. Time stood still as the both of you let your thoughts swim and allowed for the weight of the entire day to ease.

“Oh, there’s another thing,” you perked up. “But take this with a grain of salt: there’s a theory that van Gogh was colorblind; see the vivid blues and yellows?” You gestured with your hand forming an arc across the painting. “It was said that he used colors so brightly because he saw fewer of them than most. If that were true, then wouldn’t that be interesting? The guy genuinely saw the world differently even though the world wasn’t exactly welcoming to that vision. Still, he got to make all these beautiful paintings, as if those limitations themselves freed him to make beauty. Something profound about that.”

He was quiet for a long time, before you heard his simple response: “That’s beautiful.” His eyes shifted, now looking straight at the painting so you’re not sure if he was referring to the work or your almost-soliloquy. You thought it didn’t matter and you didn’t expect him to supply the answer.

“Not the suffering part, of course.”

His voice cut through the silence. You heard him clear his throat and you turned to see his eyes narrowing at the artwork as if he’s trying to unlock its hidden words. “I think creating something that touches people can be like some weird super power, but it does take a toll on a person.”

You kept your eyes on him. “I just think that trying to come up with something so immense and beautiful, something…so human, can be pretty exhausting, too. That sounds too much for anyone really, but that’s why artists are exceptional that way. For good or for bad.” At this, he turned his head to look at you. Even without the mask you still couldn’t fully read his face. And yet, you caught the softening at the edges of his jaw, the quiet understanding in his eyes.

“Even so, that’s not gonna stop you from doing what you love. Will it?”

You didn’t nod and you knew you didn’t have to. You only held his gaze for a long time. When you tore your eyes away, it’s to look back at the swirling bright stars against blue that started it all for you.  
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Your walk back to the dorm was quiet but pleasant. You looked up to see the ugly architecture of the dorm that you’d come to routinely check on your way home, like the north star at this single point on the road, but you couldn’t see through the blinding lamp post along the walkway. The sky was too dark; there were no stars that night, but inside you there was a bright swirling both pleasant and unsettling. Maybe you were hungry.

Still, you felt at peace.

“I’m gonna go grab something to eat; wanna come?” you asked, but you were quick to add: “Only in the dorm caf, though. I mean, it’s just right here.”

You watched his face go visibly annoyed—bad memories, you could already tell—his face telling you very clearly that he might as well run at least two more laps around the whole school than have another full meal in there. You couldn’t help the grin on your face. It’s every university dormer’s right of passage to have a 1-star meal in this place and you found it amusing that even Sakusa had to go through it.

“The food there is _bad_.” He simply said. Both of you slowed down as you neared the corner where you’re supposed to go your separate ways.

“That’s true,” you said, finally stopping. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t disappointed that he wouldn’t be joining you, but you figured he needed to go. “I almost forgot you came from a run; I think we’ve both lost track of time. Thanks for tonight, though.”

To your surprise, however, he didn’t make any movement to go. There was that thoughtful look in his eyes again. “I could grab a quick dinner. All that thinking about art has gotten me quite hungry.”

You laughed, delighted, as you both turned to the same direction. “Yes, I understand. It gets me starving too.”

You heard him snort. “I doubt that. You can definitely paint for an entire day and never even think of food.” He sounded serious, shaking his head. “I bet you eat like a bird.”

You gasped in mock shame. “I do not. And that was one time—“

“Lies.”

“Okay, okay,” you held both hands up in surrender. “ _Maybe_ a few times but I make sure to get food delivered now, just like you said. Alright? _Thank you._ And you haven’t even seen me eat.”

He shook his head, his face with that smug smirk that reached his ears. “Whatever.”

You remember now how the caf was surprisingly almost empty at that hour on a school night, yet you sat on the booth on the far side with the big corner window that jutted out towards the darkness like a sailing ship. You can somehow still recall the dim lights that glowed like embers; the dull voices of mundane talk, of inner universes within the cramped space; the almost no-sound of footsteps on carpet. Your hands didn’t touch and your chairs weren't side-by-side but you didn't feel alone in the world. When you picked your meal, you heard him sigh, a small mutter he made sure would reach your ears, _“Yes, you do eat like a bird,”_ which made you settle your menu down to look him dead in the eye as you mumbled to the server: “And an extra plate of tempura for side dish, please,” because you were petty like that sometimes. “With hot mustard sauce.”

He only kept his eyes glued on the menu, his mouth in a straight line, twisting only a tiny bit along with the scrunching of his forehead; a habit—you’d come to learn—that meant he was fighting off the urge to grin. Another one in his evolving range of expressions.

Maybe that’s when it started, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the irregular update. I had planned on this being the last chapter but I changed my mind. I enjoyed writing this very much, and I hope you enjoyed reading it, too. Especially the art stuff! I had fun including some bits of western art history geekery in here.
> 
> Feel free to leave comments and reviews! They give me life. And stay safe! Please try not to die before Haikyuu!! ends. Let us all stay alive for more Sakusa content. (And I mean not just of his broad back. I feel one of these days he just might actually spike the ball.)
> 
> PS. Past tense is so weird I don't think I'll ever attempt to write in past tense again.
> 
> Art References (because please, do check them out):
> 
> \+ This was the Balthus painting I had in mind:
> 
> http://totallyhistory.com/balthus-paintings/
> 
> His full name's Balthasar Klossowski and he was most well-known for his painting 'Thérèse Dreaming'. You may google it but just a warning: might be too explicit for some.
> 
> \+ An example of a Cubist painting:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brick_Factory_at_Tortosa
> 
> \+ Here's a Brutalist structure that looks very sad to me:
> 
> https://www.europeanceo.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/brutalist-architecture.jpg
> 
> \+ 'Nighthawks' by Edward Hopper. My man Hopper is best boi:
> 
> https://mymodernmet.com/edward-hopper-nighthawks/
> 
> \+ Artemisia Gentileschi's powerful 'Judith Slaying Holofernes':
> 
> https://cdn.kastatic.org/ka-perseus-images/c7c9e80c309a6e17daebdf461c4374ec3ee0aa20.jpg
> 
> Know her story:
> 
> https://www.khanacademy.org/humanities/renaissance-reformation/baroque-art1/baroque-italy/a/gentileschi-judith-slaying-holofernes
> 
> \+ And Vincent van Gogh's 'The Starry Night:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Starry_Night
> 
> All the love only for 'the little painter fellow'.
> 
> SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME I DON'T KNOW HTML I JUST WANNA SHARE THE ART.


	5. sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wow, it feels surreal to be cheering for _you,”_ you say in amazement. Maybe it’s because of the seriousness with which you’re saying it that certainly adds weight to your use of the word surreal, that Kiyoomi actually finds himself laughing. He pulls his mask down as he looks away, his mouth curled in a smile. 
> 
> —
> 
> Some of your firsts (amidst post-win cheers and in the quiet of your shared space).

**PART 1:**

“This is yours.”

You look up from your notes and before you even see his face, you catch sight of the thing that is dropped right on top of your open textbook, his hand moving in a blur. You already know what it is before you even open your mouth for a greeting and/or to ask what is up, but it still takes you just a few seconds longer to stare at the game ticket you slowly hold with your hand.

To your credit, you don’t voice out the knee-jerk response your acads-muddled, art-deprived brain makes—you have been stuck on your general subjects for the past week to prepare for your exams and you haven’t picked up a single paintbrush in days when you decided to trade your precious art books for heavy textbooks for now—and that is to say, it’s to admire the slight sheen of silver that glimmers when you turn the ticket a certain angle; the impressive use of kinetic typography that screams ‘dynamic’ without trying too hard to be trendy; and the way the featured player’s photo is cropped _perfectly_ for once. Instead, you tilt your head with a little more effort than you normally would to stare at all six-foot-four Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face, a confused wrinkle on your forehead. Does he need help from you in selling them? you think absurdly amidst your brain-haze.

“Complimentary tickets every match. They always give us five to give away to friends and families.” He supplies while he slips into his seat like it’s no big deal, but your eyes only go wide and you manage to stop yourself from squirming in excitement. Of course, he’ll have tickets, but does he even know how difficult it is to acquire one of these things? You think of the underground ticket scalping that the general school population has only been largely semi-aware of. The only other legal way for normal students to acquire game tickets these days is to line up at four in the morning on a specific day in front of the college gym. Or you could stay up ahead of everyone else right at midnight on the same morning and try your luck out online through their website that keeps crashing. (One main contributing reason being that the damn site is hard to navigate so people tend to stay there longer. You figure there’s a nice, lucrative opportunity in this for your UI/UX designer friends but your brain can’t process this right now.) If all else fails, one can venture amongst their friends for underground connections and purchase the tickets at a whooping price. 

You lean back against your chair, your studying indefinitely put on hold. “Wow, it feels surreal to be cheering for _you,”_ you say in amazement. Maybe it’s because of the seriousness with which you’re saying it that certainly adds weight to your use of the word _surreal,_ and the way you’re holding the ticket in both palms like it’s a Petri dish and you’re Alexander Fleming and you’ve just discovered the thing that kills micro-bacterial germs, that Kiyoomi actually finds himself laughing. Or lets out what you assume is a laugh; a brief, not unpleasant sound that comes out in a single breath. He pulls his mask down as he looks away, his mouth curled in a small smile.

You very rarely see him without a mask that you made a joke once that you don’t remember what his face looks like under it anymore, which was more or less a lie. The only times you’ve ever seen him unmasked in the past were during your high school’s matches against Itachiyama and his stern and focused on-court expressions are still as clear as you can remember. In truth, those rare, unmasked instances have somehow imprinted themselves in your head by now—both the serious, volleyball-exclusive ones, and the unexpected genial flashes that you only get to see up-close—that even when one of these rare pleasant expressions catches your breath, it manages to both come off as out-of-placed but also as a welcome surprise. Startling, but also warmly familiar. You blink once to keep yourself from staring and you quickly recover—you need to stop this brain rot—blaming your minor mental discontinuity on the excitement over your first ever live game cheering for _Sakusa Kiyoomi!_

“Stop laughing. You have no idea how much your serves used to scare me,” you sound aggrieved but he can see the amusement in your eyes. “Whenever you’re about to spike, I had to look away. I swear, every time you touched the ball, everyone on my side of the crowd died a little.”

He snorts. “I hope you don’t look away this time.”

Something in his eyes halts the breathing in your lungs for just one moment and your brain is doing it again—the quick, hyper-focus on his lazy eyelids, the easy quirk of his mouth, the way his moles are only an arm’s length away and this close for touching, how the ends of his hair that he parts to the side don’t quite touch the tips of his cheekbones anymore you’re sure he’s gotten a haircut from when last time you mentioned it—that you know that you can look away now and still your verbally-addled but visually-oriented brain will be able cut out this fleeting image of him right here, imprint it finely on your brain, for you to make an accurate portrait out of.

You (impressively) manage to shake it off in a span of a moment and laugh. 

“Oh, I won’t. I promise. I’m going to watch you win.” You promise with that usual glint in your eyes that you reserve just for him, a smile that he finds confidence in.

Much later on, as he tosses the ball between his hands right before he serves for the match, that smile will make its way unannounced to his steady consciousness. Nothing in his face, in his stance, will give this anomaly away, but amidst the white heat of his focus—as he flings the ball high up and he soars to meet it with full power—a single blot of thought will linger at the back of his head: 

_[Y/N] is watching._

There will be an explosive sound where ball meets floor that will reverberate in his head for one second longer, before the cacophany of celebration blows the entire stadium up and drowns out everything around him into oblivion. The sudden onslaught of cheers and screams will fill him with the familiar rush of post-win euphoria, but it’s you he’ll find himself searching for in the crowd. He’ll catch your eyes right where you’re seated and you’ll be standing up and clapping your hands, your face brimming with joy.

You are tiny and far and there is no way your voice can reach him, but he’ll read your lips: _GO! KIYOOMI!!!_

And as if only just then realizing that he had hit a service ace in the final set to close out the match, effectively securing a place for your seeded school in the next round, he’ll finally smile, uninhibited. Amidst the crowd, he’ll bring up his hand into a tight fist with his eyes still locked with yours—a silent celebration—that he may as well have crowned the whole school Champion of the national inter-college circuit.

_Much, much later on, in a different venue and in front of a non-university crowd, in his black and gold jersey, his teammates all standing 1 meter apart from him in a circle—because he doesn’t do huddles even after crowning the MSBY Black Jackals actual champions of the V. League after an intense match point like that—it will still be your face he’ll search for across the sea of people, you with whom he will first celebrate his win. Always._

**PART 2:**

Kiyoomi has had that uneasy feeling the moment you both stepped inside the shop. There weren’t many people then—there still aren’t that many now—but he just can’t shake it off somehow. No, it started even before, he thinks, as his eyes start to focus on the painted squares on the wall neatly arranged according to tone. _Hue,_ he says under his breath, correcting himself. His eyes narrow on the two smaller blocks next to the main yellow. Was it cadmium yellow, you said? He only remembers the cadmium but right now there are two cadmiums and he didn’t quite pick up which one you wanted. You’d told him earlier he could wait outside because you didn’t plan on taking too long anyway, but then he saw how clean the store was from the window so he said it’s fine. Besides, he reminded you, he knows a substantial amount about painting materials now courtesy of you that he thought he could maybe help you out look for stuff.

 _‘It’s a yellow that’s kinda closer to green than orange,’_ he remembers one of your hands gesturing as you said the word as if you’re holding an actual fruit. _‘It’s not...okay, it’s not quite like the top end of your Itachiyama jersey, it’s less banana but more lemon—‘_ Ah. So cadmium lemon, it is.

He straightens to his full height and he only has to crane his neck a little to spot the unmistakable auburn top of your head, now parted in the middle, though sometimes crowned in some intricate braid on days when you have time in the morning. You never liked wearing hats. He knows of this simple fact from all the times you’d cross each other’s paths at the walkway in front of the dorms and he’d notice the light brush of red across your cheeks after a day’s worth of jumping from one supply shop to the next, procuring only the best tools and the quality materials for whatever work you’re about to obsess over in the coming weeks. If not that, then you’d surely been out all day getting yourself stuck in the most unlikely places again in search for the best angle or the best view or the best face profile as reference for your work. The only way he could tell which kind of day it was would be whether you greeted him with a smile or a frown. Apparently, you’d choose to get sunburnt for whatever reason, and so either way he’d respond back with a smug eye roll during these chance encounters. Although once or twice he had effortlessly snatched a canvass about half of your size out of your arms because he figured you’d be more accepting of your stuff being carried by someone else than you being carried to the infirmary if you ever did collapse out of exhaustion.

You had joked once, in a half-assed attempt at defending this questionable life choice, that you never get sunburnt though and perhaps you only happen to blush whenever he’s around. He simply shook his head wryly because he couldn’t come up with a smart-ass response. 

Kiyoomi returns to his train of thought when he sees your profile from one end of the aisle. He also thinks of how you’d scribble on anything from table napkins and receipts or your hands whenever you get impatient from waiting, or your superstitious practice of stepping into an antique shop with your right foot first lest you risk having any of the spirits housed in the objects tail you home. He knows this like he knows how you always order a glass of (warm) water before you eat—nothing health-related to it, you shrugged, you just do it all the time, no fail. He had wondered many times before about how easy you’ve seemed to have assimilated to all his more careful routines and clinical habits—you, with the chaotic sleeping schedule and even messier eating patterns and spontaneous trips to some store across town for a missing brush or two—when maybe you’re just as _constant_ and oddly meticulous about chosen things as he is. Like the careful labelling of your white acrylics and the organized compartments of hundreds of sketches and notes and photographs in your studio, or even the way you always extend the sleeve of your shirt around your hand when you turn the doorknob for him. Deciding on whether or not you are truly a person of organization or actually messy as an artist as the trope suggests makes his head ache, so he simply does what he does best: he learns and learns and studies all your pieces like how his brain has somehow managed to make a catalogue of all your unpracticed habits. And he’s memorized all of it, like how his muscles have memorized the quiet effort of craning his neck to search for you on top of the aisles and amidst the sea of people, knowing full well that he won’t have to look for very long and any moment now it’s your face he’ll see.

Maybe being careful is a choice, he decides, but then certain habits are formed without our thinking, after all.

There is that subtle uneasiness again that he feels in his heart as he tugs at your sleeve. “There’s cadmium lemon over there,” he says. You grin, waving the stray strands of hair away from your eyes. “Cadmium lemon, yes! I was afraid they don’t have any. Great, I’ll get to them. Thanks!

He sees your band-aided fingers as you make a turn around the next aisle to grab something before you go to the paint section. He knows that they’re recent because he just showed you how to properly wrap band-aids around the fingers—by cutting the sides to make the flaps go criss-cross—during your last meeting which was about a month ago. This doesn’t help clear away the growing disquiet he feels, but at least this negative feeling has a direct object to it, he thinks. So he wonders.

*

The shabu-sabu is a last-minute idea, like so many things lately. Maybe more so than back in college, because sure you had your random coffee mornings at the caf, the extended late-night conversations by the vending machine in front of the dorms (you with your soda and him with his bottle of seltzer or whatever you were having), or that one time you both ended up at the college gym at 11 PM—which he, surprisingly, was the one to initiate—so he could demonstrate two kinds of serves to you just to win a silly argument; but then college also had class schedules and long-standing Wednesday routines and clear goals and specific term periods as well as the fact that you practically lived in the building across and he could simply text at odd hours in the morning if he ever wanted fast food or something, which he’d never done and maybe never would but he’s sure that you’d definitely be down to doing.

Kiyoomi says he doesn’t mind, he has no plans for this afternoon either, even though that’s not quite true. He did, in fact, plan on going to that newly-opened department store at the halfway street between the Jackals dorms and his own apartment, which means only about a 10-15 minute walk or so. Well, he can just go on another day, it’s not like they’ll run out of supplies right away. Besides, a part of him doubts the overall safety of the whole area; it’s the same street with the Italian restaurant that got closed just last month for allegedly not meeting the city’s sanitation standards. Although Hinata, whom he trusts out of all his teammates when it comes to cleaning and health concerns, had mentioned that the place is really clean and also they got the brand of liquid detergent that he likes so surely it must be worth paying a visit. Plus, he’s been planning on replenishing his own supply of soap and tissues for quite some time now, so it’s a good time—

“A writer at work told me it’s really good. I told her we had the best shabu-shabu place right across school before,” you said, laughing at the memory, “and she got offended and sat me down and handed me a list of all the shabu-shabu places just around Tokyo.”

He sees you grinning, peering at him from the corner of your eyes. “Well, so yeah, this is my first time going there too so we’ll be relying on Maps and my exceptional sense of direction to get there. You still okay with that?”

He raises an eyebrow. “With your exceptionally _bad_ navigational sense, we’ll somehow end up in some obscure novelty store that sells old records that you won’t even get to use before we get to the actual place. But sure, we’ll get there somehow.” 

You smile as he keeps his eyes straight ahead. It will always be a mystery to him how he lets you drag him to different places, but then he thinks of that triumphant smile of yours right after, a smile that clearly says _See? You loved it_ and maybe it’s not quite so bad.

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

He thinks of this for a moment because he knows that he is but he’s still aware of that distressing feeling he can’t name. “I don’t want to go home yet,” he says honestly after some time.

He realizes that this is true, and it makes him wonder because he’s never not wanted to stay at home. 

You both don’t speak for a while because there’s really not much else to say, but it is during this growing quiet that he feels it again, that sudden pang of anxiety, and before he fully realizes, you’re tugging at the end of his jacket sleeve, careful not to touch, a hint of worry in your voice:

“Are you okay?” you say, your fingers just slightly pinching the fabric of his sleeve. “You’ve been looking kinda worried since this morning…is something wrong?”

He should turn and look at you and ease your worry away, but then his eyes catches the blinking marquee of text at the opposite platform that says 10 more minutes before the next train arrives. Normally, this would elicit an impatient groan from him, but right now he’s confronted with a different kind of anxiety altogether. Four hours can easily fly by so quickly, what more are ten minutes? Ten minutes are fast, a minute much faster, a second can stretch on for days when he’s staring into your eyes and he has to remember to blink when his vision suddenly blurs. Relativity, or what not.

He feels your hand hovering inches from his arm. Without thinking, he sticks his hand out of his sleeve and catches yours, intertwining your fingers. You feel the coldness of his skin, or is it yours? You think he opens his mouth behind the mask and you await his words, but then he says nothing and closes it. You watch his Adam’s apple bob.

“I—“ he stops, his mind drawing a blank. He turns his head abruptly to see your face pinched with worry, your cheeks now in that same tinge of red that you always get when you stay out in the sun for too long. It’s only now that he realizes, at such close proximity, that you in fact have not four but five tiny moles in different parts of your face. He swallows again and then looks away again, his jaw trying to work with his words:

“—what happened to your hands?” You blink. This is not what Kiyoomi has been meaning to say _at all,_ yet he keeps his gaze right in front of him with that look on his face that tells you absolutely nothing. You blink once more and mouths an _Oh,_ before you feel the slight shift of his fingers and his thumb inadvertently brushes the back of your hand. Your hand tightens a bit in response and you ignore the mild heat that teases your face.

You ease the tension in your grip; no need to lie to him, at this point nothing’s that big of a deal anymore. “I picked on my nails too hard the other day. Actually, it wasn’t just…then; there’s already been older, smaller scars. I ended up picking on them again and they bled,” you say in an uninhibited tone because you know that the worst he’ll do is worry but he’ll never, ever judge.

“It’s no big deal. I mean, you know how it is, they always heal.” And he knows this is true. Still, his face is incomprehensible.

“What were you worried about?”

You go quiet for about eight seconds and he patiently waits. You do think hard about this because you don’t even know if there is a right or wrong answer; you tell him anyway.

“Well, nothing much, really. I guess the most worried I got lately was when I opened my e-mail to a long thread of my editor’s feedback on the storybook that I’m illustrating for. I had that, what was it...that tunnel-vision moment, when all I could see was the problem right in front of me and there was again that usual thought that maybe I’m actually just pretending to be something I’m not,” a thoughtful pause, “and wow, someone’s finally seeing me for what I truly am: a fraud.”

You say it like it’s really _nothing much,_ and he feels you shrug. “It never really goes away, but I get used to it.”

The tone in your voice makes him grip your scarred fingers a little tighter and suddenly all he wants is to tell you to just keep talking, to talk all your worries away, because he knows that he’s not going to be there the next time you’re hit with these thoughts to hold your hands the same way. The uneasiness grows in his chest and he takes a deep breath.

“Omi, you can tell me if something is wrong,” you tell him softly but he almost hears the demand in your voice. So he does. And when he opens his mouth, he only says the first coherent, most honest thought that crosses his mind:

“I want to keep seeing you. Everyday.”

 _So that’s what it is,_ he thinks wryly, and he can’t help but frown at how badly worded it is.

Maybe it’s truly the simplest answers that he finds the most difficult to get to, he thinks, but that doesn’t matter now because he knows. He knows that he wishes this day can stretch on and you won’t have to go back to being an hour away and make obscure plans to meet again months from now and he won’t have to keep relying on luck to make every other uncontrollable facet of your lives work smoothly somehow so you’ll both be able to fulfill said plans. He also silently, irrationally, and selfishly wishes that you both won’t have to fulfill certain grown-up obligations anymore so you get to be together a little longer just this time around, and he squashes that awful thought away just as quickly because he hates it when he suddenly corners himself into having to choose between the things that he loves, but then also a sliver of reassurance shines its way amidst all this; because in his most quiet, most rational state of thinking, he knows that there won’t ever exist a universe wherein you’d allow him to be forced to make these impossible choices. Amidst the noise in his brain, he finds himself promising that he’s never going to let you get hurt the same way either.

You are quiet for a long time and he worries maybe you misheard or didn’t hear him at all, but then you inch your head just a small fraction to his direction and he feels you hesitating with your words. To his surprise, your other hand suddenly moves to his side to wrap your fingers around his wrist just right under his sleeve. He doesn’t turn his head, neither does he flinch at the sudden contact of your skin, but he sees you looking at him squarely from the corner of his eye.

“You know, I was worried too that the store that we went to just now might not have the color that I needed,” you tell him out of the blue. “I thought it was very possible that we’ll just end up wasting our time, coming all the way here. Your time.”

He holds on to your every word to try to connect them with whatever he just said. “I mean, I haven’t even checked any of the shops I know around my place, but there might be a high chance the usual store I get my rare oils from might have…since I know they just restocked last week,” you almost say this to yourself.

“Then.” He narrows his eyes, unsure of what to say. “Why come here?”

“Well,” you shrug, unsure of your words either. “It’s near the halfway station from my end to yours.”

He thinks this through for a moment. “It’s actually not, and how’d you know of this place, anyway?” 

“Kiyoomi, every artist knows every good place to get materials from within a 50-mile radius.”

He snorts. “Not this one, for sure, you checked your phone twice.”

“Yeah, well only twice, besides I’ve only been here once and that was in college—and that’s not the point,” you _almost_ sigh in exasperation.

“What _is_ the point then?” He asks, already undecided as to where the thread of this conversation has gone to.

“Well, it’s because I wanted to see you too, _dumbass,”_ you blurt out, your mouth suddenly agape while the words try to catch up in your head. “It’s—“ _not that hard to understand,_ you want to say, at the same moment he turns his head to look into your eyes as if for confirmation, and you look up to see the almost incredulous expression on his face like it’s all the confirmation he’s ever needed in his life and all your mouth is able to form is a small smile before you break into a quiet chuckle. Because he understands it now, too.

 _I don’t want to go home yet_ —inside of him is a myriad of thoughts and bottled-up words he just realized he has long kept himself from saying out loud but this is the one single idea that holds the most truth and reality to him at the moment. Because he’s never wanted to not be home, whether that’s a physical space or just a sense of being, and looking at you now, with that sincere look in your eyes and a smile that says nothing and everything all the same, he realizes that there’s really nowhere else he’d rather be. And he’s at a loss for words because he doesn’t think people actually felt this way outside of romance movies, so he simply turns his head to stare in front of him again so you hopefully don’t see the blush coloring his face.

Right now. All he wants is to be with you here right now.

“I’m not a dumbass,” he finally says and all you can do is laugh at his severe expression, burying your face at the sleeve of his arm.

“You are. And I am too, don’t worry,” you say in a muffled voice and you feel his shoulder shake in his own quiet laughter.

Maybe you still won’t get to see each other everyday, technically speaking, maybe not every week even. Though if you’re both lucky, Coach Foster might leave his Sundays untouched this season, like last year when they won against the Adler’s at the championship, which they also did this time, so the weekly thing might be possible, after all. Still, he just wants to be realistic, as hurtful as some realities may be. There will still be many other things the two of you will have to figure out somehow, but he doesn’t really worry. 

The train is slightly fuller than Kiyoomi prefers, so he maneuvers the two of you both to a corner. You’ve never been to many train rides together in the past, so this one is gonna need new habits. You wrap one hand around the metal bars with your sleeve rolled down to cover your fingers, your other hand tightening your hold around his; as if on cue, he plants his feet firmly on the floor, steadying you both while he shoves his free hand in his pocket, free from touching anything.

You throw him a quick smile, effectively quieting the potential worries in his head.

Indeed, there will be time for more worries and more learnings and possibly some more habits to form, but right now, he only thinks of the humdrum of voices mixed with the quiet movements of the train, and the solid warmth of your head against his arm.

—————

**BONUS / EPILOGUE:**

It sort of feels just like before except right now it’s 11 PM and you’re no longer seated one chair apart but right next to each other. Atsumu is squinting his eyes as he shoves another ball of onigiri into his mouth; Hinata steals a glance over his shoulder every other bite and returns grinning at his meal; Bokuto seems pretty oblivious at first, a reverent expression on his face directed more at the food—a testament to Osamu’s cooking, more than anything else—before he notices Atsumu’s puffed up cheeks.

“Tsumu, don’t be sad. We’ll get them to sit with us next time!” he says, slapping his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder. Before the three of them could steer the two of you to their table, Kiyoomi simply placed his hand on top of your head and said, _No, thank you,_ and that you’ll be seated at your usual seat by the counter. 

_‘The usual seat, huh!’_ their eyes practically screamed at Osamu to let them in on what he knows, until finally, Samu relents and takes a seat at their table.

“Yeah, no, they’ve only been here for the last two Saturdays, same time,” he turns to make sure his voice isn’t so loud. “Apparently, they’re running an exhibit for 3 weeks. She gotta be there every Saturday and it only ends at 9, that’s why they only get here so late.”

The table collectively hums in understanding. “Oh, so that’s why Omi-san has been missing every Saturday night for the past couple of weeks,” Hinata gasps and Osamu has to elbow his arm as he silently tells him to _‘Keep it down!’_

“Ah, but that’s so sweet!” Atsumu whispers back, to which Osamu nods. “It’s why you always keep them away, I get it now. But hey, ‘Samu, we simply wanna know her more, don’t we guys?” he says, slinging an arm around Hinata’s shoulders.

“Oh, no,” Osamu shakes his head, “I know _you_ and I intend to keep my customers happy all the time, ‘Tsumu, and I’m not gonna let you ruin that. And besides, we’re pretty much tight now, gotta protect that friendship” Osamu crosses his fingers, a sly smile on his face. “I even know her favorite color.”

Atsumu looks around him incredulously, “What are we s’pposed to do with _that_ information?”

 _“I don’t know,”_ Osamu whispers just as savagely, _“but to artists that’s apparently very important!”_

“Oh, is that why you replaced the chair coverings to brown, Miya-Sam?” Bokuto suddenly inquires, peering under him and around, as if just now noticing.

“No, and it’s not brown, it’s _tan,”_ Osamu sighs. “And it’s not her favorite, though she mentioned she likes browns too, and anyway her favorite’s a rare one.”

The bickering doesn’t seem to reach your ears like how they also fail to catch even a single snippet of your conversation. They only see your hand gestures when you speak and the quiet smiles in Sakusa’s face.

At one point, you press a hand on his forehead as if to check his temperature and Sakusa doesn’t shove your hand away, but then you laugh when you pull back and he simply frowns like the two of you are in on some private joke.

“Aw, Omi-san lets her touch him! And he's _smiling,”_ Hinata beams happily. Atsumu snorts.

 _“Shouyo-kun,”_ Atsumu tries to suppress his grin and Osamu already groans the moment he catches that enunciated tone. “Pretty sure they do more than just caress each other’s forehea— _OW! Samu!”_

“‘Tsumu. _Stop. Ruining it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic. :") Yes, you, whoever's reading this. I haven't written any fanfiction for how many years now and I gotta say that this has been such a fun and, in a way, meditative exercise. Trying to get into Sakusa's headspace to make sure his voice sounds believable was such an experience; I hope you guys don't think he's too OOC.
> 
> Please do tell me what you think, though! Would love to write more Sakusa fics because, as one reviewer said, there's a scarcity of fics for this boi <3 I'm working on a horror one right now HAHA but I'm still a long way from finishing. 
> 
> Again, thanks for the support! You guys are awesome.
> 
> P.S. The art stuff were my favorite parts to write. If anyone just wants to idk gush over dead Western artists or anything, just hit me up, because I'm always down on nerding the shit out of classical art. This fic came into being partly while I was reviewing some of my old fine arts books and college readings while on quarantine period, so like. LET'S BE NERDS.


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